Alastor's jaw tightened as he watched one of Cielle's suitors inch a little too close to her. His golden eyes flickered with a dangerous glow, his hands curling into fists at his sides. The man leaned in, speaking softly, and though Cielle's posture remained poised, Alastor didn't miss the slight stiffness in her shoulders, the subtle way she shifted away. She was uncomfortable—but still, she remained polite, ever the graceful princess.
It made his blood boil.
He didn't understand why this feeling surged through him every time another man approached her, but it consumed him whole. A possessive rage clawed at his chest, irrational and insatiable. Did she even realize how maddening it was to watch her entertain these fools with forced smiles and empty courtesy?
