Mei
The West Wing of the Mooncrest Estate felt different after a trek to the "Dead Zone." The air-conditioned hallways, once a sanctuary of quiet recovery, now felt like the sterile walls of a pressurized chamber, holding back an explosion. Every time Mei's boots clicked against the polished marble, she felt the phantom weight of the mud on her skirts and the acrid, silver-edged scent of the shed clinging to her hair.
She needed that key.
She knew Alaric's routine with a precision that bordered on the obsessive. At two o'clock, the "Weight of Steel" usually demanded its toll. The sheer mental effort of maintaining the High Alpha's psychic shield over the pack territory, coupled with the physical strain of his morning physical therapy, left him drained. He would retreat to his study, the heavy oak doors muffled by velvet curtains, and slip into a fitful, shallow sleep in his high-backed leather chair.
Mei stood outside those doors now, her hand hovering over the brass latch.
