She looked at Mahir, her glass-bead eyes cold and absolute.
"Bring them here," Elara commanded, her words simple but carrying the heavy, crushing weight of the Empress. "Put them on the desk. Do not be angry."
Mahir's jaw clenched. The muscles in his neck strained visibly as he fought down the primal urge to drag the Northern Prince off the desk by his silver hair. But the absolute command of his Alpha—his Master—was unbreakable.
He marched forward, his heavy boots echoing on the marble floor. He stopped right beside Julian, looming over the prince for a terrifying second, before slamming the reports down on the corner of the desk.
"As you command," Mahir ground out, his golden eyes flashing down to Julian before returning to Elara. "Is there anything else you... require, Master?"
He stressed the final word just a fraction—a deliberate, possessive flex that completely bypassed Julian but registered perfectly in Elara's analytical mind.
