Kian's POV
The image of that f*****g man in Layla's apartment refused to leave my mind. His ridiculously broad shoulders braced in the half-dark with that vile tattoo curling up his neck, his eyes fixed on me as if he'd already decided that I wasn't worth the oxygen that I was breathing. His voice had snapped through the air and gripped hold of me effortlessly, as if he owned me, and when he spoke, my wolf had recoiled like I was nothing more than prey.
It disgusted me.
I gripped the wheel tighter as the car sped down the private road. Streetlamps cut across the hood in hard bursts, one after the other, each flash replaying the sight of Layla standing there with him behind her, no, not just behind, owning the f*****g space around her as though it was his by right.
"It isn't,"
