“Why don’t you, uh, put her out on the porch?” Alfie says. “Since it’s bothering her in here.” Put me on the porch? Like a dog? Dermot cackles. “He can’t do that. You can tell you young pups aren’t mated. You don’t know shit.” Killian’s wandering fingers are now fiddling with the tip of my braid. “He’s right. I can’t let you out of my sight,” he says low.
