The massive doors of the master suite slid open with a whisper of clinical automation. Dahmer Lukas stepped inside, the tray in his hands holding the meticulously calibrated beef broth. The heavy black tactical bodysuit clung to his frame, and the charcoal-gray mask was firmly locked over his features, its polished visor reflecting the dim, elegant lighting of the palace.
He had expected a war. He had expected to walk into a storm of shattered furniture, a roaring wave of Alpha pressure, or at the very least, a feral growl from a cornered King.
Instead, he was met with absolute, freezing silence.
Malcolm Ford was sitting upright against the headboard of the sprawling bed. His expensive suit was torn and stained with the grime of the bridge embankment, and the mark on his neck pulsed with a low, rhythmic throb beneath his collar. His hands were resting flat on his lap. His eyes were wide, clear, and fixed entirely on the door. He was completely, utterly calm.
