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“Let me askyousomething. If your perfect husband waltzed into this place and demanded you go back. Would you?”

“I could have left—”

“But what if he had leverage?” Something in his tone makes my stomach churn ominously. “Like your sister. Or…your son?”

“Stop it!” I lunge for the side of the bed, but he tightens his grip, bear-hugging me to his chest. The more I struggle, the harder he grips me. Voice rasping, I choke out, “Why the hell do you like torturing me?”

“I’mnot.”

And that’s the worst part. I can hear the pain in his voice as I go limp in his arms. He’s hidden it well up until now—but Mischa Stepanov can only control his emotions for so long. And I don’t want to think about why he’s asking this now. Why, even as I struggle, he doesn’t hurt me.

Why he won’t let me go.

“I’m not,” he repeats gruffly. “So answer the fucking question—”

“No!” I deflate as my voice echoes throughout the room, high-pitched and breathy. “I wouldn’t go back. Never—”

“You want to know about me?” he says as if this is some twisted game of tit-for-tat. “My father disowned me. At first, I was too weak. Then too strong. Then too much likethem.” He chuckles darkly. “The Winthorps. My own father hated what I became—the same monster Anna saw. And Aljona. And Vanya…”

Suddenly, he shoves me aside and rises from the mattress. I watch him pace, the muscles in his back rippling with tension. “They were disgusted. They thought I was the corrupted one. But I am still alive, Little Rose.” His eyes meet mine, shining with rage and anger and…pain. “I’m still alive. And them? Where are they?”

He storms from the room, leaving the silence to fill in the answer for him.

Where are they?

Gone.

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