"Get the glasses." Jack jerks his hand at Sheryl, and she obeys without hesitation.
"You'll be serving Ragnar's men. They're in the guest room. Charlie will show you the way." He barely spares her a glance before shifting his attention to me. "And you," he says, jabbing a thick finger in my direction, "grab that tray over there and hold it. I'll pour the drinks. Can't afford any mistakes when it comes to serving that demon."
Silently, I pick up the tray and wait. Jack doesn't reach for the fresh bottle of whiskey—the same kind Alpha Dion prefers. No. Instead, his fingers curl around a tall crystal carafe, its body encased in an intricate golden snake that coils up to the very top.
The honey-colored liquor inside shimmers under the dim light, a rich golden undertone swirling as he tilts the vessel. The liquid flows smoothly into the glasses, and for a fleeting moment, I catch myself staring, my mouth watering at the sight.
Why am I craving a drink?
