I’m looking at my hands. They’re more like my father’s hands than I ever realized before. The same broad knuckles, the same long fingers. Scars and tattoos like his. As for what’s on the inside… Well, I always swore it was the polar opposite of Lukas Lazarev. I’m not so sure anymore, though. Ten minutes ago, my little fox sat across from me and told me what a violent man did to her. How he pinned her down and took something that wasn’t his to take. How her brain left her body to survive it. How she spent five years struggling simply to exist inside her own skin again.
And then, in the very next room, I became exactly that.
A violent man with blood on his hands and a body at his feet.
Maybe Lukas was right about me. Maybe I am his son, through and through.
But as long as it’s for her sa
