The heavy brass latch of the study door clicked into place with the finality of a prison vault door closing.
Dean stood with his back pressed against the dark wood paneling, his breath ragged, his heart hammering against his ribs. The study was a space he had always treated with quiet reverence—a room lined with floor-to-ceiling mahogany bookshelves, rich leather armchairs, and the low, golden glow of a heavy brass desk lamp. Tonight, bathed in amber light, it felt like an interrogation chamber.
Kellan didn't sit down. He stood behind his massive desk, broad palms resting flat on the dark leather blotter. The light caught the sharp angle of his jaw, highlighting the tight, white-hot tension etched into his features. He looked towering, formidable, and dangerously composed—a chilling shif
