MINE. STILL.
“If Theo tries anything, I’m not guaranteeing that man’s head stays intact.”
I arched a brow. “Hear that, Ma? Your sons are loving, supportive, and mildly violent.”
Papa appeared from the living room, my cats Nacho and Butters circling his legs like furry bodyguards. He came straight to me and hugged me tight, like he knew I was heading straight into hell disguised as a luxury bedroom that smelled like Theo’s infuriatingly familiar aftershave.
“If he does one bad thing to you, just one,” Papa said, voice firm, “you call me. I’ll be there. And I’ll bring a scythe, not flowers.”
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