“That’s pretty fucked up,” he tells me. His mouth pulls like he’s sorry for me, but I don’t fucking want him to be sorry for me. I’ve had her for all my life, she’s mine, I fucked it up and now I have her like she’ll let me. I don’t need his pity. I don’t even need his understanding. Just need her. I watch her, the girl of my dreams, love of my life, alpha, omega, beginning and end, till death do us part and even then I’m still hanging on—and all I say is, “Yeah.”
