Montery looked no older than thirty, smooth skin, aristocratic cheekbones, eyes a striking amber that glimmered like molten gold in the hearth's glow. Handsome. Unscarred. Sinister in his composure.
But Sylas knew the truth.
Alvaro had warned him. He was a werewolf. A long-lived creature. This youthful face was a lie crafted by blood and nature.
"Enough?" Montery rasped.
"Much better," Sylas said. "Now you understand your place in this negotiation."
Montery swallowed, humiliation burning in his lowered gaze. He didn't speak.
Sylas stared intently at him. "Think very carefully before you betray me, Sir Montery. I'm not like my father. You won't have the chance to regret it."
Behind Amos, Selmora's smile widened, and the remaining Black Mask men stiffened in fear. The balance of power in the room had shifted completely.
Montery, who once commanded the black market with confidence and ruthlessness, now bowed his head not out of respect, but out of survival.
