“Who are you?” I ask him, furiously blinking back the burning tears that want to flood my eyes. “You’re not Ares Cirillo.” “No,” he says. “I’m not. My name is Rafe Petrov.” The pieces fall into place. Kade Petrov. Rafe Petrov. And . . . Miss Robin. That beautiful face, those brilliant eyes, that low, husky voice like a thrill across the skin . . . so similar to Ares. To Rafe, I should say . . . “She’s your mother,” I murmur. “Yes,” Rafe nods. “She’s Sloane Petrov.” “You lied to me all along. From the day we met.” “Yes,” he says. And now I see a flicker of guilt in his eyes, but I don’t fucking
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