Han's POV
I was burning.
Burning with rage.
The kind that sat low in your gut and climbed up your throat, ready to scorch everything in its path. My fists clenched as I stormed down the hallway, boots echoing with each step. Tyler's limp form hung between Azazel and another guard, head lolled forward, eyes fluttering shut.
Pathetic.
"Drop him," I barked.
Azazel shot me a glare. "He's unconscious, Han. Calm down."
"I told him... I told him!.. not to take his eyes off me! What part of that was hard to understand?!"
Azazel's voice was quieter now. "He was drugged."
"I don't care."
"He'll be punished."
My jaw twitched.
But I didn't say no.
As we neared the stairs that led back to the grand ballroom, the bass of the music and the clinking of champagne flutes filtered in. Laughter. Flashing lights. A sickening reminder that the world still turned even when I wanted to rip someone's throat out.
And then—just as we descended the stairs
There he was.
Wayne.
