Alpha Lir POV,
The glass didn’t shatter, it just broke apart in my hand. One second I was holding a crystal tumbler of aged scotch, the next my palm was burning, filled with red cuts and sharp glittering pieces.
I didn't flinch. I didn't even feel the sting.
"Lir, your hand."
Elara’s voice was like a thick shrill flute played out of tune and entirely too close. She stepped toward me, a silk handkerchief held out like a peace offering, but I pulled back before she could touch me. The scent of her heavy roses and that sharp, chemical undertone made my gorge rise.
"I’m fine," I snapped, my voice sounding like gravel.
"You’re bleeding on the Persian rug," she pointed out, her lower lip trembling just enough to remind me that I was supposed to care. "You’ve been like this since the Ridge.
