"Drink!" Silas Thornton ordered, his sharp, slitted pupils fixed on Quinn Zeller, his expression dark.
His pitch-black eyes shamelessly shifted into vertical slits, cold and menacing.
The true majesty and aura of the King of Wolves radiated from him, instantly filling the entire room.
The alcohol-fuddled haze in Quinn Zeller's mind cleared instantly.
He shivered and carefully placed the bottle on the table. "President Thornton? You can't drink anymore. If you keep going, you won't be able to get up tomorrow, and you won't see Miss Wyatt."
The temperature in the room dropped a few more degrees, and a chill went down Quinn Zeller's spine.
'Although Silas Thornton's face was blank, Quinn Zeller could just tell he was angry—the kind of angry that couldn't be soothed.'
