Dane's POV:
"Just get out. With her not here, we don't have to pretend anymore." I pull my chair back with a sharp, violent jerk, the heavy mahogany legs screaming against the floorboards.
He doesn't move immediately. He just sits there for a second, his gaze skimming over the door to our bedroom upstairs with a lingering, p interest.
"Hmmmm, sure," he says, stifling a lazy yawn that makes my blood boil.
"If you're in such a rush to get to her, I would suggest otherwise. Give her space"
Asshole.
The audacity of it—he thinks I need his advice to talk to a girl I've known for fourteen years? Her own mother couldn't manage her moods, so what makes this arrogant bastard think he's fit to even talk to me about her?
"She's sick, and there's the door," I growl, leaning over the table until I'm inches from his face.
"Talk about her again, and I'll feed tiny pieces of you to her in the morning soup tomorrow. You can offer her solace that way."
And all he does is laugh.
