Jared was pissed off, and it showed in every detail of his presence. His aura—thick, suffocating, bristling with fury—rolled off him in waves that seemed to claw at the walls of the council chamber. He did not need to roar or lift a weapon. The tension of his body alone, the sheer pressure of his dominance, was enough to pin every man and woman in the room beneath its crushing weight.
He sat at the long oaken table as though upon a throne, back straight, arms resting lightly upon the carved armrests, yet the silence between his measured breaths thundered as loud as any battle horn. His golden eyes glowed faintly, his jaw tight with restrained rage. Every person present—lords of the werewolf houses, their heirs, warriors sworn to his banner—sat stiff-backed and wide-eyed, afraid even to draw a full breath in his presence.
