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A muscle jumps in the Dark Commander’s jaw. “I would never dishonor my brother’s intended,” he grits out. Then, he gracefully kneels before me and takes my hand in his larger one, his callouses scraping against my palm.
My mouth parts in surprise—I was certain he’d refuse. His eyes don’t leave mine. I want to look away, but I can’t.
A begrudging flicker of respect blossoms in my chest before I regain my senses.
He’s a murderer.
Zevayr slides the ring onto my finger and seals my fate.