Crisis Averted | F&R
@viciousvisage
He didn’t know how he’d gotten separated from Arielle. That wasn’t true. Rod’s mate was in rare form tonight. When she’d gabbed Ari by the arm and glared up at him, Fenrir hadn’t been sure that he stood a chance against her in this body. He’d growled, but even that sounded wrong.
Without his mate to anchor him, Fenrir had drifted through the crowd, prowling between partygoers, not sure where he was going or what he’d do when he got there.
Somehow he’d ended up in the smoky interior of a parlor room, trapped in a conversation with some business mogul hoping to expand his trade into France. Since Fenrir was posing as Rod’s cousin who’d come all this way from the prospective frontier, clearly he’d been the ideal person to corner. Rolling his shoulders and biting down on his molars, Fenrir missed his knives. He missed his claws. Staring at the stout man in front of him, he imagined the warmth of his blood spraying as Fenrir slashed open his throat.
Fenrir’s French was pretty good. His French accent? Not as good. So, he nodded his way through the conversation, eyeing the nearby sculptures and busts of old nobles, and plotted the best way to bludgeon the man, and his way out of this.
Fingers raked through his hair, mussing the strands. Continuing to absently nod, he tried to loosen the tie choking his neck. He needed out of this room. It was stifling, and the man’s voice was grating on already frayed nerves. Licking his lips, he felt them twitch into a snarl, and ground his teeth against the urge to bash the man’s skull into the nearest corner if it meant him leaving him the fuck alone.