Chapter 11The band St John had placed around my throat had been the first sign he’d given that he was willing to commit to me, but now he had said, “Robert, may we go home?” My wolf was bounding in joyous abandon.
St John had called my house “home.” It was better than Boxing Day and my birthday wrapped up in one. In spite of the solemn situation, I had to be grinning like a lunatic. I took the car keys from his uncle and escorted my green-eyed boy from the gloomy house he’d grown up in.
I knew St John had been struck hard by his father’s callous statement that he was not Haynsworth’s son. It was one thing to suspect it, but quite another to actually hear it spoken. He sat huddled beside me in the front seat of his Uncle James’s Mercedes, shivering from the reaction. I had the heater blas
