A stranger grips my forearm with his fingers, holding me upright.
“Let her go.”
I flinch at the unbearably familiar voice. The fingers immediately loosen, and I collapse onto my knees, exhausted by fear and anticipation. My executioner studies me as if he hasn’t seen me in ages. There’s nothing in his eyes but hatred—and the desire to punish.
Inside, everything twists into a tight knot, stretches, and tears.
“Get out. Go away. Saburov.”
He sits down beside me, watching with mockery.
“How much is your life worth now? And the life of your bastard?”
Contains profanity.