Keith

I glare down at Camille’s offering. Reluctantly, I admit it's a good catch. The Stag is mature and at least weighs 400 pounds. His hand is extended, palm upward, holding a slender ribbon wrapped around a note: a peace gesture or a provocation, I’m not sure which.

When the fuck did he have time to write that?

The question is ridiculous. What's even more absurd is that I care so much about it. I flex my fist, looking over at Camille again.

Logic tells me that’s exactly what it's for, to give them what they want. The drama, the rivalry.

I suppose my anger isn't completely lost on me...