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There was a drawer in Toven Hearst’s bedroom that contained a shoebox. Inside that shoebox was a hair ribbon. And try as she may to rationalize it in any other way … that ribbon was hers.
“I’m not sure how many more times I need to say it,” he whispered, and the room was barely breathing. “That heartspring is mine. Her mouth is mine, her magic is mine, her skin is mine.” His teeth bit through the words, and he met eyes with every person at the table before saying, “You will not touch her, under any circumstances. I purchased her. I do what I please with her.”
“They’re going to pay for what they did,” she vowed, her voice hollow and misshapen. His gray eyes stared down at her. He moved a curl behind her ear. And he nodded.
“Sometimes I have to act without your approval to do what’s best for my family! Not just you, all four of us!”