BREE’S POV
He is older, his face seriously scarred, wearing a leather jacket loaded with faded patches I don’t understand.
Where the rest of the room practically bowed out of the way for the Presidents, this man only offers a curt nod.
Then his stern, hawkish eyes cut to me and lock, predator to prey.
He tips his head back and breathes in, physically scenting the air between us.
“Rook,” Caspian warns, his tone carrying a dangerous vibration I don’t understand.
But the warning only sharpens the cutting glare Rook levels at me.
“A Luna.” Rook’s lip curls with unbridled repulsion. He spits the word like it’s dirt. “The Luna of Willowcrest. What business do the Vipers have dragging a pack Luna into the Pit? Is she here to give us an etiquette lesson, or is she just a free-use breeding
