Third Person's POV
"Wilmot, go drive the car."
Just as Wilmot was busy putting a hex on Mortimer in his head, that arrogant, entitled command hit his ears again.
Wilmot threw him a look of pure, unadulterated disgust. But under the heavy weight of Mortimer's terrifying pressure, he still ended up shuffling his feet and heading outside to play chauffeur.
Mortimer kept his face dark, his powerful arms forming a rock-solid cradle for Dash.
He used his long legs to stride out of the medical center.
His arms were steady as iron, carrying the puppy without a single wobble.
Maybe because Mortimer was the guy who had jumped into a disgusting storm drain without a second thought to haul him out, the fragile puppy had developed a totally defenseless sense of trust and dependency on him.
Dash
