Haven’s fury grew, lighting the air and setting the room on fire. He could feel it, sensitive to such changes and feeding off of them greedily Heath couldn’t help but look for the fight that was brewing. But it was only the two in the empty bar, and he had settled on not hitting the angry younger male. They were friends, of which Heath had very few and was not whiling to give up for petty and pride. Instead he only listened, killing the bottle faster and faster. Soon Haven wouldn’t be the only one curled inside the comfort of the glass containers. Until they were shattered against the wall, though Heath hardly flinched.
He kept silent, picking the nearest bottle of amber liquid. The square bottle had a old and wore label, and he wish silently that he could read the name. It was a passing wish. Holding the whiskey out to the male, gold eyes looked at him with a hidden anger. Hiding the rage he felt, and keeping it in as well as he could, his tongue was finally released. No one has killed him yet because they don’t know. They don’t know what he is. If they haven’t seen it, they all need to know. Repeating himself would bring the idea home, but it might have been the vodka talking a bit too.
Why do you think I’m here? I’m out looking for him, the one eyed asshole is out there, prolly living some great fucking life. The idea made his blood boil, the prick living with some family and pretending like nothing had ever even happened. You should kill him, but you wont. Heath looked from the other males drunk blanketed eyes to the bar, hanging his head with the image of his estranged father being happy. It wasn’t right . |