Mark's POV
The guards didn't dare touch me again after I shook them off at the east wing doors. They fell back like shadows, eyes averted, mouths shut. That was the wise move to make, one wrong move and I would have painted the corridor with their blood. My wolf was still riding high, fur bristling under my skin, claws itching to extend, fangs aching from the fight I'd barely been pulled out of.
Mateo's scent clung to me like tar: blood, pine, guilt, and triumph. My brother's triumph. The same brother who had once stood beside me in every council meeting, every border skirmish, every drunken night when we swore we'd never let anything come between us.
And now he'd come between me and the one thing I'd claimed as mine.
I shoved through the heavy oak doors of my private wing, boots leaving muddy prints on the polished marble. The room was dark, only the low fire in the hearth cast flickering shadows across the walls. I didn't bother lighting the sconces. Darkness suited my mood.
