The air in the private resting suite was no longer thick with the copper tang of a dying Alpha. Instead, it felt strangely crisp, as if a lightning storm had passed through the room and left behind a trail of ozone and silver.
When Marcus burst through the door, his chest heaving and a tray of Level 9 suppressants rattling in his hands, he expected to find a scene of carnage. He expected to find his boss choking on his own blood, the leather restraints straining against a body in the throes of a violent, premature rut.
Instead, he found silence.
Malcolm Ford was sitting up.
The restraints—the heavy, reinforced leather straps that Marcus had tightened with his own hands—were lying open on the mattress, the buckles undone as if they had simply decided to let go. Malcolm was leaning against the headboard, his chest bare, his skin glowing with a health that was almost offensive given the state he had been in ten minutes prior.
