Vincent.
The copper taste of the wolf-suppressing drug still lingered heavy under my tongue, a constant, bitter reminder of the poison Aidan's elder council had forced down my throat every morning for the past three weeks. My skin felt cold without the hum of my dark magic, and my wolf's pulse was nothing more than a dull, buried whisper deep within my chest.
They had stripped my power. They had bound my lineage. But as I leaned my weight against the heavy wooden doorframe of the sitting room, resting one shoulder casually against the carved oak, I couldn't help the slow, razor-sharp smirk that pulled at the corners of my lips.
Power didn't reside entirely in magic or bloodlines. True power lay in knowing exactly where to twist the knife, and the scene unfolding before me was nothing short of poetry.
