He studies me with rapt interest. “Do friends not take sobriquets? If I recall correctly, you called my dear cousin Dima.” “You cannot be serious.” I stare at him in disbelief—both that he remembered the one time I shortened Dimitri’s name and that he could ever, even in the warped depths of his mind, consider pet as a term of endearment. “You are not my friend, Michal Vasiliev.” He arches a brow. “No?” “No,” I say emphatically. “That you would even think of friendship while you plan to maim and murder my loved ones proves you are quite incapable of it.” He waves a dismissive hand. “Every
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