allowed a beat of silence, just to screw with his nerves, before replying dully, “If you want to prolong your death by making me do a paternity test before killing you, I’m not opposed to that. As long as you’re aware I’d be twice as pissed if I find out you lied on top of raping my wife. And let’s just say I’m already not in a generous mood.” I was never angry. It was a pointless emotion, and I was notoriously stingy with those. But right now, I was sick with rage. Poisoned with the cloying, unfamiliar feeling of helplessness. He hurt her. My own kin.
