Hunter’s POV
The whiskey wasn’t working anymore. I’d been drinking for three days straight, and all I had to show for it was a pounding headache and the same f*****g thoughts circling my brain like vultures.
Helena was dead.
I’d betrayed her with Grace. I was a dirty bag.
I set the glass down too hard. It cracked, a thin line appearing from base to rim. Figures. Everything I touched these days seemed to break or turn to s**t.
“Hunter?” My father’s voice, followed by a knock. “Son, we need to talk about the funeral.”
I ignored him, staring at the cracked glass, at the amber liquid inside it. I didn’t want to talk about the funeral. Didn’t want to think about Helena in a box, lifeless.
Even now, all I could think about was Grace. Which made me feel even worse and unable to look at her
