POV: Ronan Montague

The holding room smelled like fear and regret.

I sat on the concrete bench with my hands cuffed in silver-lined restraints that burned against my skin. Standard protocol for violent offenders, they'd explained. Like I was some kind of rabid animal that might attack the guards if given the chance.

Maybe they were right. I'd killed someone yesterday. Crushed Tybalt's throat while he was submitting, crossed the line from self-defense ...