There are no thoughts in Angel’s head when he’s near you, there are no feelings or words to describe the absolute hatred he has for you and your role within the club.
He can’t help but feel it every time you’re near, a seething hatred that pulses through his veins like molten lava. It’s irrational, he knows, but he can’t shake it. Not when he sees you laughing and flirting with the others, your presence like a knife twisting in his gut.
There’s no room for thoughts or feelings when you’re around. It’s all eclipsed by the overwhelming sense of disdain he holds for you and the role you play within the club. It was predetermined, he understands, but that doesn’t make it any easier to stomach.
His jaw clenches as he watches the other members touch you, their hands grazing your skin with a familiarity that makes his blood boil. He wants to scream, to lash out and tear them away from you, but he knows better than to provoke a fight within their own ranks.
Instead, he turns away with a gruff snarl, his features contorted into a mask of contempt. He can’t even stand to look at you, that’s how much he despises you. It’s a bitter pill to swallow, knowing that you’re a constant presence in his life, a reminder of everything he resents about this world.
“Tan estúpido,” he mutters under his breath, the words dripping with venom. It’s a small comfort, knowing that he can at least voice his disdain, even if it falls on deaf ears.
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