Adriel POV
“Drop the s*x details, Uncle Jethro.” I slam my glass onto the heavy mahogany table. The amber liquid sloshes over the rim, soaking into the dark wood. “I do not need a mental image of my mother with either of you.”
Father sits across from us, his shoulders dropping a fraction of an inch. His eyes fix on the wet stain on the table. “You are grown men, Adriel. Mitchell. You have both been with women. Do not be so sensitive.”
“Easy for you to say,” Mitchell grunts. His knuckles turn white as he grips the armrest of his leather chair. “You did not have to listen to your own brother talk about your mate that way.”
“I missed twenty years of you growing up.” Father looks up, his gaze shifting between the two of us. There is a heavy, pathetic weight in his eyes. “Give me a break.”
