KERES POV
I could feel what was happening.
Every shiver.
Every gasp.
Every filthy little crack in her breathing.
And believe me when I say this: I was a saint.
Yep.
A freaking f*****g saint.
Only a saint could stand there pretending to adjust a carburetor while his mate was upstairs falling apart under his brother’s hands. Only a saint could keep his head under the hood of our old Chevy instead of storming into that bathroom with fangs out and self-control six feet under.
I deserved a medal.
A statue.
A national holiday.
Keres, patron saint of not kicking down doors while your mate moans for someone else.
Goddess f*****g save me.
I gripped the wrench so hard the metal bent.
Actually bent.
“Great,” I muttered. “That was useful.”
The car, obviously, did not answer.
Rude but
