The Tyrant alpha
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His nostrils flare as he draws in a deep, bracing breath, and he forces his muscles to slowly, deliberately unflex.
“You should sit,” he finally grinds out.
My gaze darts around the place, looking for a chair. There’s the primitive stacked stone fireplace he’s looming next to. A battered trunk. A ragged sleeping bag with a soot-stained kerosene lantern on the floor next to it. A book. It’s upside down, so I can’t tell what it is, but it’s been through the war, too.
And there’s a huge freaking sword propped against a wall. It’s rusty—God, I hope that’s rust—and dented and the blade is nicked in places, but not in a way that makes it seem old—in a way that makes it seem well-used.
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