Kastiel looked at the man kneeling before him.
Bound. Helpless. Shaking.
And yet, even now—even like this—something in Kastiel's chest burned with a fury so cold it felt like ice crystallizing around his ribs.
He was trying to control himself.
He had been trying since the moment Peter pulled him aside in the summit hall, since the whispered words reached his ears, since the world had narrowed to a single, unbearable truth, someone had brought a bomb into his home. Into his territory. Into a building filled with the most powerful alphas in the world, with envoys and delegates and innocent people who had come in good faith.
But he couldn't control himself anymore.
The mask of composure he had worn all day—the calm, measured Alpha King who never let emotion show, never let anyone see what lay beneath—was cracking. Splintering. Fragmenting into something raw and dangerous.
At this point, he believed they were purposely messing with him.
