Lucian's pov
The air in the manor was not merely tense; it was incandescent
I stood in the center of my office, my boots crunching over the remains of a hand-carved mahogany desk. Without Elara, the power inside me just curdled beneath my skin, it was like a storm begging to be let out.
I grabbed a heavy silver bust from the mantel and hurled it through the window.
Give me control, Vraal hissed in mind.
My wolf had been in a state of relentless, blood-slicked rampage since the moment Elara was taken. He was not merely restless, he was feral.
Vraal was an ancient beast, a creature of pride and apex cruelty. A Warlord.
He should have regarded her as nothing more than a temporary battery, a flickering candle in the dark. But the old beast had developed a twisted and deeply inconvenient fondness for the Anchor.
No, I snarled back, my knuckles whitening around the edge of a shattered sideboard.
