DEVON
The sound of Alpha Rowan cutting into his steak was enough to make me want to burn the building down. Scrape. Clink. Chew.
I sat at the long mahogany table, swirling the amber liquid in my glass. I didn't drink it. I just watched the light catch the alcohol, counting the seconds. In exactly three seconds, my father, Raymond, would clear his throat and offer Rowan more wine.
One.
Two.
Three.
"More vintage, Alpha Rowan?" Raymond asked, his voice eager, bordering on pathetic. "It's from the southern vineyards. A spoil of war."
"Don't mind if I do, Raymond," Rowan chuckled, holding out his glass.
I closed my eyes for a brief moment. I had lived this dinner before.
In the real timeline, I flipped the table and killed Rowan before the appetizers arrived. I sat in silence until the dessert came, bored out of my mind. Then, I walked out before the main course, in a blood-stained shirt.
