Tension rolled through him. His fingers laced through my hair at the small of my back, his voice hoarse. “Tell me who hurt you, Gianna.” I didn’t even blink that he knew. Of course, he did. Give the man two sticks and tell him to make a boat with them, and he could. I couldn’t deny him an answer. Not now, without an ounce of fight in me. With my body against his, and his smell everywhere. Not in the dark, with his arms around me and his voice in my ear. “A family friend,” I said. “Is he still alive?” “No. He died when I was fourteen. Natural causes, unfortunately—no torture involved.” My
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