One hundred and Eight

 Anger…he needed anger—it was a fuel that had always worked for him in the past. He didn't have to dig for it, not while both he and his wolf were already raging at fate. His hard gaze drilled into hers. If he had to make her detest him so that she'd leave, then that was what he'd do. "Why would you want this, baby? Because you feel sorry for me? Because your conscience is telling you that it's what you should do? I don't want your fucking pity. I don't want you."

 Did he really think she wouldn't know what he was doing? Pfft. Sansa was well aware that he wanted to piss her off, to drive her away, to make her hate him enough to run out of this motor home and never look back. What an idiot. "I want this because I care about you, dumbass."