“Fuck. Tell me you’re feeling just as good as I am right now?”
The pain of others has been a reliable source of pleasure for me. But I can’t say I feel good. If anything, I’m even more disturbed than before.
I killed for her.
“All this time, I’ve been persecuting Jay for being a killer.”
“You killed five people today instead of incarcerating them. Which, was an option, I might add.”
Truthfully, it hadn’t even crossed my mind. After seeing what they did to Jay, there was no other outcome.
“Does that make you a killer? Or are you just someone who has killed?” he asks.
“I did what I had to do.”
“Did she not do the same thing, but in active combat?”
I find myself asking where the immature twat I grew up with went. Regardless, he makes a valid point. Maybe I don’t give Tyler enough credit. He’s really stepped up. I keep saying I’ve been by myself, but maybe my isolation is my own doing. Perhaps, I should start letting people in.
“I have to tell you something. But you can’t freak out. Or tell anyone else.”
“I’m not going to tell anybody.”
Here it goes.
I sigh. “Jay is . . . my mate.”
“She’s your what?” Tyler’s eyes bug out of his head. “Hold on.”
I let him process the news however he needs. Which typically means he is going to talk a lot with his hands.
“She’s your fated mate?” He interlocks his hands, pressing and extending his index fingers and pointing them at me as he pieces it all together.
“Yes.”
He squints one eye. “The female you had imprisoned and paraded around like a dog?”
I cringe at my past behavior but ultimately accept my actions. “Yes.”
“Jeez, man. How long have you known?”
“Since my father passed. So . . . September.”
“September?! And you’ve kept it from us this whole time?”
“I had to.” Silence lingers. Tyler finger drums on the armrest and stares off into space at the floor, taking everything in. “She didn’t kill your sister.”
He nods his acceptance and adjusts himself, sitting up straighter. “It all makes sense now why you kicked my ass when I was just following protocol.” Scratching the back of his head hetries to figure out what—of the million questions I’m sure he has—to ask next. “Does she know?”
“I don’t think so.”
“I thought she was twenty-one.”
“Shesaysshe’s twenty-one, but she doesn’t know her true age. Her wolf has, yet to recognize me.”
“Dang.” He runs a hand through his hair. “When are you going to tell her?”
I shoot a funny expression his way. “I’m not going to tell her anything.”
