As I fought for air, Cole stood there as if there wasn’t a pile of pain and rubble beneath both our feet. He wore his dark hair slicked away from his face, his angular jaw hidden beneath his artfully constructed five-o’clock shadow. His icy blue eyes were backlit with a cruelty that had earned him the label of mysterious. I’d always joked that Franklin’s obsidian eyes were wasted on him. Between him and his son, Cole wore the darkness well. Cole took on the olive coloring of his South American maternal grandfather, while I’d been gifted with the paleness of my European father. He towered
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