"What?" His voice is strained and shaky.
I know that tone. That's the way he always talked when we were kids, and he was about to have a fit. Nearly seven years later and that's the only thing that hasn't changed about him.
"He's. My. Mate," I repeat, emphasizing every word like I'm rubbing salt in an open wound. "Did you get it that time?"
He laughs, trying to cover up the twitch in his eye, but it's an empty sound. "That's tragic then. Because that doesn't change anything. You're already taken."
A roar of thunder comes again, like it's in tune with my emotions.
"It's funny how he kidn*pped me, yet he still treated me more humanely than you ever will again," I say sourly. I turned on my heel to leave, sick of even looking at him.
"Where are you going?" he calls angrily. His footstep
