The black wolf's blazing yellow eyes locked onto his mate's unconscious form, slumped in the chair.
Seraphina's head hung forward limply, her dark hair falling across her pale face like a curtain. Her skin had taken on a deathly pallor, drained of color and life. The metallic scent of blood saturated the air, thick and cloying, making his wolf snarl with rage.
His gaze traveled down to her arm, where a tube still protruded from her vein. Her blood dripped slowly into a half-filled bag. Scattered around the chair were more bags, all filled with deep crimson liquid.
They had drained her nearly dry.
A low, rumbling growl built deep in the black wolf's chest. His lips pulled back, revealing gleaming white fangs. Every muscle in his powerful body tensed, coiled like a spring ready to snap.
Then his eyes shifted to the man standing beside his mate.
Elyon.
The man who had stabbed him. The man who had poisoned him. The man who had taken Seraphina and done this to her.
