"Thank you, Alpha Blackthorn."
He took the leather-bound folder I handed back, flipped through to confirm the blood-seal, then closed it.
And in that split second as he turned to leave, I saw it clearly—his lips moved, fast and silent.
No sound. But the shape was unmistakable. Three syllables:
Old bastard.
He didn't even bother closing the heavy oak door behind him.
I stayed in my chair. Didn't move.
The quill slid back into its holder with a soft click.
Moonlight streamed through the arched window, falling across one corner of my desk. Almost too bright for midday—the celestial blessing that marked our kind.
I pressed the rune-stone that connected me to my Omega assistant.
"Alpha Blackthorn?"
"Close the door."
"Yes, Alpha."
A soft click, and the council chamber fell silent again.
My eyes drifted to the dimmed ward-stone on my desk—the one linked to the territory scrying network. My finger brushed its surface once, then stilled.
I didn't activate it.
Ten minutes later, the front gate keeper sent word through the message-rune.
"Alpha Blackthorn, the Beta-Consort and her Omega Liaison just left together. They took... your shadow-mount."
"Noted."
I severed the connection.
Rising from my chair, I walked to the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the Blackthorn territory.
Below, the sleek black carriage—pulled by my prized shadow-horse, a beast bred for speed and silence—glided out of the underground stables, merged onto the forest path, and vanished at the edge of my vision.
The glass reflected my silhouette—formal pack attire, expressionless face.
A few minutes later, I activated the travel scryer bound to the carriage.
The image was crisp. The sounds, crystal clear.
Kael had one hand on the reins. His other rested on Selene's silk-covered thigh.
His fingers traced lazy patterns there, the motion practiced. Familiar.
Selene had one hand draped over his arm, her face tilted up toward him, eyes curved with laughter, cheeks flushed pink. Her scent—even through the scryer—carried notes of arousal that made my wolf snarl in recognition. That scent should have been for me alone.
The modest cream cloak she'd worn in the council hall was gone—tossed in the back of the carriage.
All that remained was a silk blouse, the top two buttons undone, exposing the pale column of her throat where my mating mark should have kept her faithful.