He dried off, tossing the towel aside. His reflection stared back at him in the steamed mirror. His pale skin was a ruined canvas of red scratches and dark, bruising love bites.
A feral smirk curved his lips.
He bypassed his usual refined, high-collared attire. Instead, Julian pulled out a tailored, pitch-black shirt, deliberately leaving the top three buttons undone.
The dark fabric contrasted sharply with his silver hair, framing the faint teeth marks trailing up his collarbone. A predator didn't hide his scars. He wore them as trophies.
The grand corridors of the East Wing were quiet as he made his way toward the council chambers. His stride was smooth, hiding the stiffness in his hips through sheer willpower.
As he rounded the final corner, the massive oak doors of the meeting hall came into view. Standing on either side were two towering figures.
Mahir and Ken.
