The heavy oak doors of the study clicked shut, sealing out the sounds of the house—the distant clatter of pots, the shrieks of the twins, the warmth of the family. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of old leather, unlit tobacco, and a tension that had been aging for centuries.Damon moved to the crystal decanter on the sidebar, pouring four fingers of amber scotch into five heavy glasses. He handed one to Jax, one to Fennigan, and then walked over to the two Elders sitting in the high-backed wing chairs near the unlit hearth.Elder Thorpe took the glass, his hand trembling slightly—not from age, but from the weight of the words he was about to speak. He looked into the amber liquid, swirling it, watching the light catch the facets."You think we came here just to save face," Thorpe said quietly, his voice lacking its usual political polish. "You think we are just old wolves afraid of losing our seats to Vane’s new regime.""Aren't you?" Fennigan asked, leaning against the heavy
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