Chapter 8 · The Command Beneath Our Feet

The crushed needle rolled across the marble and stopped against Calian's boot, its red glow still pulsing.

I grabbed his sleeve. "Don't touch it."

Calian looked down at the needle, then at me. His fingers closed around my wrist instead of the weapon. His grip was hard enough to hurt.

"You don't get to order me around in my own fortress," he said.

"Then stop standing over it like an idiot."

His mouth tightened. The banquet hall had gone silent around us. Lords, pack leaders, and armed guards watched from their tables while the captured lord knelt between two wolves near the dais, blood running from his split lip.

The needle had been meant for me.

It had struck the stone inches from my hand before Calian crushed it beneath his heel. Now a thin red line crawled from the broken metal toward the silver thread circling my finger—the thread created by our blood pact.

Calian saw it too.

"Move behind me," he ordered.

I yanked my wrist free. "I'm not hiding behind you."

"This isn't a debate, Seraphina."

"Everything with you is a debate. You just hate losing."

His eyes dropped to my mouth for half a second.