Keith
I glare down at Camille’s offering. Reluctantly, I admit it's a good catch. The Stag is mature and at least weighs 400 pounds. His hand is extended, palm upward, holding a slender ribbon wrapped around a note: a peace gesture or a provocation, I’m not sure which.
When the f**k did he have time to write that?
The question is ridiculous. What's even more absurd is that I care so much about it. I flex my fist, looking over at Camille again.
Logic tells me that’s exactly what it's for, to give them what they want. The drama, the rivalry.
I suppose my anger isn't completely lost on me then.
But the beast inside me doesn't take this as a well-played act. He only sees competition, another contender looming for Hope.
I can't give in all the way, but I can't let the reins loose a lit
