Jefferson's POV
Malcolm Kendrick commanded the space in front of my mahogany desk like he owned it. The man radiated authority in every calculated movement, every measured breath. I understood power intimately, could smell it from miles away, recognize it in the subtle tilt of someone's chin or the way they planted their feet. Kendrick possessed that unmistakable aura of someone accustomed to having his word treated as law.
But intimidation had never worked on me. I was forged in the fires of absolute power, shaped by generations of dominance that flowed through my bloodline. My mere presence had brought kingdoms to their knees without me uttering a single syllable. Terror spoke for me, a whispered promise that kept entire nations walking carefully around my existence.
