The doors of my suite slammed shut behind me, the vibration rattling the crystal decanters on my side table. I tore off my charcoal suit jacket and threw it across the room, watching it crumple against the velvet armchair. My chest felt like it was being constricted by iron bands.
Everything was spiraling. The funeral, the circus that is Waverly's family, the whispers—it was a coordinated strike against my authority, and I had been the one to hand them the ammunition.
"Where is she?" Vane paced restlessly in the back of my mind, his claws metaphorically digging into my composure. "Our mate should be here. She is hurting, and you are here breaking furniture like a pup who lost his favorite bone."
She can stay in the hallway for all I care, I snapped back, though I found myself glancing at the door every few seconds. I waited for the click of the latch, for the rustle of that ash-grey silk, for her dramatic entrance and the inevitable shouting match that would follow.
