Draven's Point Of View
I rose slowly from the head of the long, darkly polished conference table, the heavy leather chair scraping against the floorboards with a low protest that echoed through the tense silence. The room still carried the cloying scent of Nadia's expensive perfume from her dramatic exit earlier, now mingling with the sharp bitterness of the black coffee Lucian nursed.
That particular fragrance… something French and obscenely overpriced, always gave me a headache, and today was no exception.
Leaning my palms flat against the wood, I studied my brothers, taking in every detail of their postures, their expressions, the subtle tells that years of working together had taught me to read. The weight of what I was about to say settled in my chest like a stone, pressing against my ribs with each breath.
