"He’s bleeding. Why is he bleeding, Solomon?" Phineas gripped the edge of the mahogany table, his knuckles white, eyes locked on the diplomat slumped over a plate of half-eaten venison."I didn't touch him, Mother," Solomon said. The seven-year-old sat perfectly still, his silver-black eyes cold, reflecting the flickering candlelight of the Great Hall. He didn't blink. He didn't reach for his juice. He just watched the man’s nose leak a thick, dark crimson onto the white lace tablecloth."The hell you didn't!" Abram barked, slamming his small fist onto the wood. The Golden Boy of the pack, already sporting the broad shoulders of an Alpha-to-be, stood up, his chair screeching against the stone floor. "You were staring at him. You were doing that... thing.""Abram, sit down," Phineas commanded, though his voice lacked its usual steel. He looked at the diplomat—a man who, moments ago, had been laughing about 'human queens' and 'diluted bloodlines.' Now, the man’s eyes were rolling back i
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