HIS UNTAMED QUEEN
The collective roar of dozens of dominant wolves crashed down toward the center podium, battering Rory's raw nerves.
Her vision doubled for half a heartbeat. Beneath her silk cuffs, she dug the edge of the silver bracelets directly into the meat of her wrists, using the burn to stay upright.
Beside Corina, Elder Zena leaned back in her high-backed seat, watching the chaos with detached, sensual fascination.
She looked no older than twenty-eight, ethereal and striking, with copper hair falling past the shoulders of an asymmetric, wine-dark silk gown.
Her violet-grey eyes drifted over the sweat sheen on Rory's collarbone, lingering on the micro-tremor in her hands.