Rhys
I shouldn't have said that, I thought as I swallowed another round of shots. The alcohol burned down my throat, but it was not enough to make me forget what I had said—not even after the fourth shot.
"That was bad," I muttered, staring into the glass and watching the ice cubes melt.
Why had I taken my anger out on him? "You are not special." My own words resounded in my head, and I hated how I had sounded. I could have stopped right then, but I continued, hurling those nasty words at him.
I hadn't meant to react in that manner, but when I saw him standing there looking fine—laughing on the phone with someone while I was falling apart—I had lost it. Something in me snapped. The Avalanche Way had been beaten into me since I was a child; my father taught me that weakness is a disease. If you are not winning, you don't exist.
