Celine
Dolton leans closer, his gaze steady but filled with sorrow. “That night—my birthday—that was the first time. Before that, it wasn’t me.”
My stomach churns, and my pulse quickens. “But you... you came to me. That night when I turned eighteen. I remember it.” My voice cracks under the weight of my confusion.
“It wasn’t me,” Dolton says firmly, his voice thick with regret. “I fought them, Celine. I told them it was wrong. I tried to stop it, but I couldn’t. I left. And when I came back, I... I found out what they’d done.”
I can barely breathe as I ask, “What happened?” My hands reach for his instinctively, needing to anchor myself as the room seems to tilt around me.
The moment my fingers touch his, a vision floods my mind. I see Dolton standing with his brothers and father, his
