Eve thought about the torture scene in the warehouse. The cold precision of it. The way Dimitri had broken a man's fingers one by one without raising his voice. She'd asked herself how someone became that, what turned a person into something capable of that kind of calculated cruelty.
Now she thought she understood a little better.
When you learned at eight years old that the world was brutal and that love made you a target, you had two choices. You could break. Or you could become the most dangerous thing in the room, so that no one would ever have the power to take something from you again.
Dimitri had chosen the latter.
