"You're challenging the Alpha for his throne? What is wrong with you?" Isolde's voice was a raw explosion, the words tore from her throat before she could even think to stop them. A sudden, cold shock jolted through her, realizing what she had just said.
Jareth's hand, holding his glass of liquid, paused mid-air. Slowly, deliberately, he lowered it to the ornate side table beside his velvet armchair.
The clink of glass against wood echoed in the sudden silence of the room. Then, in one fluid, predator-like motion, he rose. The space between them, which had felt comfortably wide moments before, vanished as he closed the distance swiftly.
He responded first with a sharp, low hiss that matched the evil glint in his eyes. Isolde felt a shiver trace its way down her spine. Where had she found the courage to challenge him? She stumbled, caught between bravery and a wave of regret.
