"What," Elara murmured to herself, her tone genuinely puzzled, "is wrong with his brain?"
Julian's heavy leather boots struck the corridor stones with punishing force.
Every step sent a jolt of pain up his lower spine, but the sheer, blinding rage burning in his veins masked the soreness. He marched through the East Wing, a stormy, murderous scowl etched across his handsome features.
The nerve of that man. The unbridled, shameless audacity.
He envisioned the entire logistics department again. A dozen men sitting around a long oak table, casually passing around leather restraints, sharing crude stories while discussing how it 'filled their stomachs.'
A shudder of pure disgust ripped through him.
He needed air.
