And with that hurt, it was always the same: white and white and white… and a flash of long, golden hair. A man turning away. This man. “You knew Reshaye,” I forced out. And Max’s eyes went wide. Ishqa’s stare darkened. “Reshaye?” he said, quietly. “That’s what she calls herself?” “She?” Max said. “Does it mean something?” I murmured. A wince flickered across the man’s face. “It means, ‘No one.’”
