K I L L I A N
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10 years ago.
I’m going to murder my father. With my bare hands, look down on him, so that his son's eyes reflect in his. He needed to know it was his son that murdered him. His eldest. The one he swore wasn’t his blood. The one he put my mother through hell for. Yet, to his surprise, the DNA test returned 99.9%—he was the father.
Thornov blood ran through my veins. Murder on my mind. Hatred in my heart. I was going to kill this man and let Nicolas take the final stab. I swore to it. Most sons only took over the pack when their father retired. Who the hell would let an eighteen-year-old prick run such a large population?
Not a sane man, that was for certain.
“Relax,” Nicolas muttered from beside me.
I glared daggers at the car next to us. The twins were inside. The
