The door exploded inward.
Not opened. Not kicked. Exploded—the lock shattering, hinges ripping from the frame with a sound like thunder.
And through the wreckage walked Damien.
His eyes—God, his eyes. They weren't the warm amber I knew. They were molten gold, glowing with an otherworldly light that made every instinct in my body scream predator.
The temperature in the room plummeted.
Julian's hand was still fisted in my hair, still holding me down, but suddenly his grip went slack. I heard him make a sound—something between a gasp and a whimper.
"No," he breathed. "You can't be—how did you—"
Damien's gaze locked onto Julian's hand. On me, kneeling on the floor with my hair in his grip.
When he spoke, his voice was death itself.
"Take. Your hand. Off her."
