Lyerin stood in the center of the sanctuary, his hands clenched at his sides, frustration bubbling under his cool exterior.
Commanding others had never been his style.
He was a lone wolf, a sadistic bastard who thrived on the thrill of hunting his prey one-on-one, relishing in their terror as he told them they were going to die.
The chase, the fear in their eyes, the thrill of running them down—it was all a part of the game he played.
But commanding?
Relying on others?
It felt unnatural to him.
He paced in the dim light, his mind swirling with thoughts.
He hated the idea of leading an organization, let alone a tribe.
Although he had said in the past that he would make it—and lead his tribe—now, when he felt the responsibility on his shoulders, he felt like he was not the type who could do it.
The idea of sitting back, giving orders, and waiting for others to act went against everything that made him who he was.