☽☽☽MIKAEL'S POV☾☾☾ "The bastard refuses to speak!" I fling the blasted papers off the table. Stupid reports that have no meaning litter the floor, and I tramp over them, grabbing my glass of brown liquid on my way to the small cut-out window. "It's been five fucking days!" "Maybe you've not tried enough," the foul-mouthed wolf taunts from his perch on the couch. "Your methods have always been inadequate from time, Alpha. I advise that you adopt mine, which has proven to yield better results." Snorting derisively, I flash my hand back and forth. "Save your breath," I suggest with an unsubtle glare. "I will not." "Why?" He pretends to be genuinely hurt, eyes awide, mouth slightly agape. "Conceivably..." I drawl, drenching my words in sarcasm. I'd take to mockery if it would make me feel the best as I fain for, but it'll not. Nothing will ease this foul mood of mine. "Possibly, it is that your methods involve maiming as a first resort. It might plainly be that reason, Fabian." He

☽☽☽MIKAEL'S POV☾☾☾ "Welcome to Guttenbrieg. How have you been today?" She keeps it simple and formal, as she must be ignorant of whether the guest ranks higher than I. He doesn't, of course. But her necessary precaution entails initiative. "I have been well, Luna. Great now in your presence." Fabian ogles her appreciatively. My fist balls on my lap beneath the table. I want to bash his nose into his skull. "Saskia, this is the Alpha of Duttan, Fabian. You are free to address him however you wish." I alert her of the prerogative she owns, spelling out in bold that Fabian is below me and not the other way around. "Fabian, meet my wife, Saskia, former princess of Westardum, now Luna of Guttenbrieg." "It is a pleasure to meet you, Alpha." She nods, according to him due respect but with a minute change in how she regards him. In the present, she looks down at him without difficulty. "The honour is all mine, Luna. Completely mine." His scrutiny transmutes into something perverted as

☾☾☾SASKIA'S POV☽☽☽ ​​"Whatever you say, Alpha." I suppress the latent, dangerous hum rising in my bosom. "What you've been doing matches a picture of you trying to babysit me." He strokes his clean-shaven chin, and it hits me all over again that he's no longer sporting a beard. It's flabbergasting to me that there's no difference to be noted, except his jaw is considerably more defined and visible. I don't know many males who do not regress down in years when they cut off the full brush on their face. Their features ordinarily lose the maturity possessed beforehand with the beard. Not Mikael. What I'm saying makes scarce sense, but not a single ounce of manliness has faded from him. He might be more attractive now, even. No more are the distractions from his icy blue eyes, which smoulder brilliantly, scorching me through the puffy sleeves of my winter jacket. I battle the sudden urge to hide behind a barricade. "You insist on calling it that. Perhaps, you should allocate a mor

☽☽☽MIKAEL'S POV☾☾☾ The honeyed scent does not waft away even in her absence. I shut my eyes for a long while, hoping to rid the redolence of her arousal, but it is to no avail. To put it lightly, the monster she has arisen below currently attacks the seams of my trousers relentlessly, a miserable attempt to free itself from the material's prison and perhaps latch itself to the suctioning channel worth its seeking. Unfortunately, that path of action is no choice of mine. Not now. Not in public. Not when I have not taken possession of her heart. She yet tiptoes around me, unsure what to do, how to feel and react to what I say. The property is peculiar, as are her tastes, I've come to heed; for one, never have I met any as infatuated with maple oatmeal cookies as exhibited in her frequent demands for them. And this uncanny obsession is none the whole of it. The Luna is a walking box of wonderments—many catastrophic. Scanning around, I parse the scheme of the shop's settings. Rows o

☽☽☽MIKAEL'S POV☾☾☾ Amongst my audience, Gwendolyn wears terror most finely at my actions, a phenomenon I find strange since she’s been exposed to my dealings far earlier than Serenge, as a lasting member of the pack. Well, it doesn’t matter what she thinks or feels. I flick my attention from her round eyes and horrified cast. “To reiterate, Crestengalt, since your eardrums have been occluded with liquid,” I beam at him with all graciousness, enjoying how his hands curve around his neck, trying to curb the bleeding and keep the red fluid from spilling to the white, tiled floor. “You will call my wife, Luna. Next, you shall return the pack and treat yourself if your healing mechanism is that limp and has not put you out of pain by your arrival.” My grin broadens, aware that I scored well enough that an average wolf cannot heal all that injury in an hour. “I have eased your burden,” I add, gauging his mellowed response. “You need not protect my wife no more. Concentrate on staying a