Hunter’s POV

The whiskey wasn’t working anymore. I’d been drinking for three days straight, and all I had to show for it was a pounding headache and the same fucking thoughts circling my brain like vultures.

Helena was dead.

I’d betrayed her with Grace. I was a dirty bag.

I set the glass down too hard. It cracked, a thin line appearing from base to rim. Figures. Everything I touched these days seemed to break or turn to shit.

“Hunter?” My father’s voice, followed by a knock. ...