38

All Hadrius sees is red.

His hands clench into fists whilst striding down the hallway, blunt nails digging into the flesh of his palms, drawing rivulets of blood that slip from between his fingers like fine sand.

Behind him trails his mate in silence, aware of his tensed, livid state, yet seeming indifferent to it. He smells the intoxicating wine that stains her lips, and beneath her scent is the Alpha’s son. Atticus. It stains her skin, her shoulder which he had touched, her forearm where he had pressed upon while they sat side by side.

Pressure rises in the warlord’s mouth and a muscle leaps in his cheek at how he had found them.

Atticus, the young ignorant brat of a pup, and his arrogant blatancy as he dared lay claim to his human.

Hadrius cracks a knuckle and continues, unwilling to look over his shoulder. His teeth grind like motors and despite the cool night air that brushes past his coat, billowing it behind him, his skin tingles