He shot up, chair clattering backward, claws unsheathing with a loud shhk! as his eyes turned molten gold. "You smug, tea-sipping bastard!"
With a roar, Dren launched himself over the table.
Chaos erupted.
Thrones screeched on the stone floor. The heavy oak table cracked as Alphas leapt from their seats—some to hold Alpha Dren back, others just to avoid being caught in the crossfire. Beta Theon flinched back as the cups on the table flew past his face.
"Decorum!" Someone yelled. But no one listened.
Alpha Julius didn't move. Not at first.
He merely lifted his teacup out of harm's way as the mad, ego-bruised Alpha Dren lunged. Then, almost lazily, he rose – and in one smooth, surgical strike, slammed his elbow into Dren's ribcage mid-air.
There was a crunch.
Dren coughed, doubling over as Julius caught him by the throat, his grip tight.
"Sit. Down," Julius said softly, voice like silk draped over a blade, but his eyes blazed with ice that could choke.
