The thing about Wicker is that he only knows two ways of coping with any given thing: hurt something or fuck it. And it’s usually the latter–sometimes both. It’s not his fault, it’s just what being Father’s product has shaped him into. I hate it. I’ve always hated it. From the first night he came back to boarding school and told Lex and I, smirking, about the sweet piece of ass he bagged over the weekend, I didn’t feel jealous like Lex did. I felt fucking sick at the thought of someone owning him like that, because for all his boasting and bluster, I could see the uncertainty and hurt lurking
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