LUCIAN SLADE

The door slammed behind me harder than I intended, the echo traveling down the corridor like a warning. My knuckles were white at my sides, my chest tight with a fury I refused to name. The scent of blood still clung to me, heavy and metallic, mixing with the sharp tang of anger that refused to fade.

Idiots. All of them.

They should have known better than to touch what belonged to me, whether I cared for it or not. Possession was not affection. It was law. Order. Something they ...