He's surrounded by bristling wolves and one very angry Alpha, yet the golden-haired stranger doesn't so much as blink. He stands with the kind of preternatural stillness that'll make your skin crawl—hands clasped elegantly behind his back, expression placid as a frozen lake.
His suit remains impossibly pristine despite the mud and snow around us, not a single hair out of place.
Lucas's body is tense, radiating alpha dominance. "Who the hell are you?"
If I don't intervene…
"It's fine," I say quickly, shoving my way to his side and placing my hand on his forearm. The muscles there are coiled tight and hard. "He's a friend."
It might be stretching the definition of 'friend' to its breaking point, but now's not the time for semantics. The tension crackling through the air is thick enough to choke on, and my bodyguards are ready to kill.
Which… I would hate to admit it, but I don't think they'd win.
