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...

Not when I walked out of the ballroom, flanked by my family like a prisoner.

Not when the murmurs of wolves trailed behind me, thick with shock, disgust, and morbid curiosity.

And certainly not when my father's grip tightened around my arm—hard enough to bruise, tight enough to snap it in half if he wanted. But he didn't.

He hadn't stepped in when I was bullied, humiliated, and mocked. But the moment Draven Oatrun claimed me as his, then—only then—did he finally cross ...

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