Malcolm's hands slowly uncinched from Marcus's crumpled collar, his fingers releasing the fabric with hesitation as his entire upper torso rotated toward the administrative desk. The silence that followed the intern's explosive, masculine shout was no longer just corporate tension; it had transformed into a suffocating density that felt like the pressurized hull of a submarine sinking into black water.
Malcolm took a slow step forward, his expensive leather shoes striking the floorboards with a deliberate rhythm. His amber eyes, still bloodshot from the episode in the washroom, dilated into dark pools of suspicion. He loomed over the smaller boy, his chest heaving under the midnight-blue suit jacket, his Alpha aura flaring in a desperate attempt to regain total command of the territory.
"Vane," Malcolm rumbled, his voice dropping into a dangerous register. "What the hell did you just say?"
