Mordred's PoV:
I slumped deeper into the worn-out armchair in my dimly lit living room, the fabric frayed at the edges from years of neglect, much like everything else in this godforsaken apartment.
The bottle of cheap whiskey—some off-brand rotgut I'd picked up from the corner store on my way home, clutched in my hand like a reluctant lifeline.
The amber liquid sloshed gently as I raised it to my lips, the sharp burn sliding down my throat, searing away the edges of the day's humiliation.
But it couldn't erase the memory. No, that played on an endless, torturous loop in my mind: Kianna's warnings, the eyes that watched us fight like cats and dogs, the smugness on some of their faces and Kianna's last glare at me before walking away with Lesley.
And it was all the bastard's fault, if he hadn't interfered in our life, if he'd leave us the fuck alone..none of it would've happened.
