Seven was mid-laugh with his men when the front gates slammed open.
Rodrigo was walking toward him, his strides long and heavy, his expression fixed into a tight frown. Seven glanced at the men gathered around the stone table and they dispersed before Rodrigo reached them, chairs scraping back, cups left half full.
Seven stood and bowed his head. ''Alpha.''
Rodrigo sat without answering. He reached across, picked up one of the cups and filled it from the jug, and downed it in one go before Seven could get a word out. The cup came down hard on the stone table.
Seven closed his mouth. He sat down slowly across from him and said nothing.
Rodrigo's thumb drove into the base of the cup, pressing in slow circles. His jaw was tight, his eyes fixed on nothing in particular, and Seven had learned a long time ago what that look meant. He kept his hands flat on the table and waited.
I don't love him.
