Weeks earlier, a storm had been brewing in Nash's chest, and today it finally erupted.
The news hit him like a physical blow. Seraphine had survived childbirth. Not only survived, but delivered twins to Alpha Theodore. Two healthy pups that should have been his legacy, his bloodline, his future.
Nash's hand trembled as he gripped his whiskey glass in the dimly lit library. The amber liquid burned down his throat, but it did nothing to numb the fury clawing at his insides. His spy had delivered the report with clinical detachment, but each word felt like salt in an open wound.
The glass exploded against the stone fireplace. Shards scattered across the Persian rug like fallen stars. Nash's chest heaved as he surveyed the destruction, but it wasn't enough. Nothing would ever be enough to ease this consuming rage.
