Before she could take a step toward Roman, a trembling hush took over the crowd, the kind that spreads when everyone knows the dominant power in the room has risen.
And that was because he had stood.
Alpha Ashbourne Sinclair. The Alpha of the West.
He rose from the honoured guest platform with this quiet, effortless authority that carried around the whole arena.
Conversations died mid-sentence. Second-years straightened up, killing the intense whispers burning between them, and few that were close to him bowed instinctively - their wolves unable to help themselves.
Ashbourne stepped forward to the railing, his black cloak catching the wind, the embroidery of a dark horse glinting as the cloak swept.
His firm gaze swept over every detail around him.
The lingering dust cloud. The deep gouges on the wall. The bloody sand.
And then, her.
She froze when his gaze touched her.
It wasn't soft. It wasn't angry.
It was the look of a man assessing a weapon.
