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Summary
He tried to turn, just a little, just to see his face, but Alastor's hand gripped his hip with possessive force, anchoring him in place. He couldn't move. He could barely think.
"I asked you a question, darling," Alastor's voice resonated against his nape, low, dangerous, each word a tense whisper. "Whose shirt is this?"
Vox swallowed. He blinked a couple of times, focusing his mind through the haze of that angry alpha scent.
"It's... Val's," he said, and his voice came out smaller than he wanted.
He felt Alastor's body tense behind him. The silence that followed was worse than any scream.