SAINT.
The second we stepped into the house, I peeled off my combat gear like it offended me. Boots – flung. Shirt – torn over my head and dropped on the floor. The knives I hadn't used? I threw them too, just to hear something hit the wall.
I stormed into the bathroom before I'd f*****g explode.
I was burning with rage. The kind of heat that melted bone.
I could literally brand someone just by the mere touch of my hands. Yeah. That's how f*****g hot my rage was.
The second the icy water slammed into my back, I dropped my palms to the wall and bowed my head under the spray, letting it roar into my ears and wishing it could drown out the echo of Kester's smug f*****g voice.
‘You’ve lost control of your men, Saint.’
The mission was a disaster. A f*****g failure.
Kyrie reduced me to a
