From the moment Jareth crossed the threshold, his fury was palpable. The omegas who usually moved with quiet purpose became like ghosts, melting into the shadows of doorways or pressing themselves against the walls, their heads bowed so low their chins nearly touched their chests.
The only sounds were the frantic scuffling of their retreat and the deafening, deliberate thud of Jareth's boots on the polished marble floor.
Isolde felt the shift in the atmosphere before she even saw him. She had been descending the central staircase, her hand trailing lightly on the banister, when the front door slammed with a report like a gunshot.
A cold dread, familiar and sharp, trickled down her spine. She froze on the steps, her body screaming at her to turn around, to flee back to the safety of the upper floors. But it was too late. As if pulled by an invisible string, his gaze snapped up and locked with hers.
