After the gunfire, the room goes silent. Zoe and I both stand frozen in place, watching the smoke rise from the muzzle of the gun.
Chase still grips it, his eyes straining to one side to try to look at it. “I think I’ve made my point,” Crowin says. He pulls open the desk drawer from which the gun had originally been taken. “Place the gun back, please.”
Chase does, and Crowin closes the drawer. As he does, he whimpers out the word “How?”
“It was a blank, silly,” Crowin laughs. “You think I’d have you point a real, loaded gun at me? What if one of your sweaty little fingers slipped? Alas, I think that’s all I will need from you. Return to your work and engage in it with proper vigor and zeal.”
“Yes, my Alpha.” Chase leaves the room. As he makes his way out, his gaze stays locked on Zoey, who looks back at him. Longing and desperation travel between them. Wholesome love corrupted into sad pleading.