After what felt like an eternity of silent grief, the car stopped. I didn't want to move. I didn't want to face the reality of a world without my family, a world where the people who had raised me saw me as a stranger. But his hand, so gentle and so strong, was on my chin, lifting my head until my tear-streaked face was looking at his.
“Moya solnyshko,” he whispered, his voice a low, raw rumble. “Look at me.”
I did. His eyes, those cold, hard emeralds, were now filled with a dangerous, possessive light. There was no pity in their depths, no trace of the man who had knelt before me just hours before. There was just a raw, unyielding love that was both beautiful and terrifying. He reached for my face, his hands wiping away my tears, his touch a gentle, loving thing that made my heart ache
