Zayn leaned against the banister, a cigarette hanging loosely from his lips, arms crossed over his chest, his entire demeanor radiating anger. The air around him felt thick, charged, almost suffocating.
Landon stood beside him, more relaxed, but he could feel the tension rolling off Zayn in waves.
It was so hot, he could have sworn he had sweat rolling off his back.
He took a drag from his cigarette, letting the smoke curl around him as if it could protect him from Zayn's fury. His dark hair was pulled into a loose bun, and his casual sweater and dark pants didn't match the intensity of the situation.
The tattoos on Zayn's arms, the ones that usually lay dormant as black ink, were alive—writhing and twisting, forming grotesque shapes that snapped their fanged mouths into the air. They were a manifestation of his power, the darkness that Zayn held within himself, barely restrained.
