DRAVEN
This time, I was not the only one who looked like hell when we converged for our usual hellish meetings.
The High Gamma's skin had grown noticeably sallow, her mouth stretched into a hard line of restrained ire and frustration.
The High Alpha was the same—his void eyes held not a hint of their usual dark humor.
Nothing had gone according to plan, despite the damning evidence we had sent right to the Clan's doorstep. The projected consequences had come out flat and disappointing. Our nameless correspondence from the Clan had not sent any type of update concerning the new state of things in the wake of implicating Althea.
Things had gone quiet—far too fucking quiet.
I had begun to pace, the silence between all of us a suffocating shroud that refused to lift as we pondered our next steps.
"It should have worked. He is called the Hell Hound for a reason," Morgana lamented.
