Zephyr leaned back in the plush chair, his gaze fixed on the long frail sheet laid out before him. The faint scent of the old paper lingered in the air, a familiar comfort in the sterile study room.
A soft knock at the door broke his concentration. With a subtle movement, he swept the sheets into a drawer within his ornate desk, his movements fluid and precise.
"Come in," his voice resonated, deep and steady.
The door creaked open, and Isolde, head bowed low, entered. She stopped a few paces from his desk, her posture radiating apprehension.
"You're late," Zephyr remarked and his voice sounded like a low hum.
A shiver ran through Isolde. Even without harshness, his tone held an undeniable weight, a presence that pressed down on her.
"I lost track of time, My Alpha. Please forgive me," she managed.
She kept her head bowed, refusing to risk even a glance at his dark, unreadable eyes, knowing the sheer force of his gaze could unravel her composure completely.
