A chill moves down my spine. His voice is cold. Colder than I’ve ever heard it before. Lukas is squirming in my arms as if he too is afraid.
“That’s not my name,” I whisper. “It hasn’t been for years.”
“Aryana Georgeovich,” he says again, sliding his tongue over his teeth. “It’s a pretty name. Though, I guess you were almost Aryana the Butcher’s Wife. Not quite as pretty, but—”
“Stop,” I say, unable to stand the cruelty in his voice. “Please. I left him. I burned that bridge a long time ago. I hated him.”
“Hated him?” he spits. “You hated him so much you had to lie to protect him?”
Shame courses through me, hot and acidic. “We all make mistakes.”
He steps towards me and I’m tempted to move back. That’s what one does when they’re being pursued by a threat.
But Dima isn’t a threat to
