Alaric’s POV
My fists were still trembling, the residual adrenaline of the confrontation coursing through my veins.
I could feel the dull throb of the scrape on my knuckles from where they’d connected with Lysander’s arrogant jaw—a sharp, satisfying impact that had barely scratched the surface of the consuming fury that still burned within me.
How dare he touch her?
How dare he look at her with that possessive glint in his eyes, as if she were some prize to be won, something to conquer? The possessive rage was a living thing inside me, a primal fire threatening to consume me whole.
My wolf was clawing just beneath the surface, snarling and restless, demanding blood. Demanding retribution. Demanding justice for the blatant disrespect.
But beneath the burning rage, a flicker of something colder, more unsettling, remained.
She’d looked… scared.
Not of him. Of me.
I replayed the chaotic scene over and over in my mind as I stormed down the deserted corridor, the air around me prac
