MilaAaron stayed where he was standing for a long moment. He didn't move a muscle as if he was letting his brain process the word slowly.Then suddenly, he gave a single nod and walked away, vanishing into the hallway. I stood there, wrapped in the softest wool imaginable.That night, I didn't sleep. Most of the time, I was sitting by the glass window of my bedroom, watching the sky bleed from a bruised purple into a pale grey.The sun began to peek over the ten-foot concrete walls of the estate, casting long shadows across the lawn.I watched the armed patrols moving. Every fifteen minutes.I thought about the library. I thought about the soup. I thought about the way he knew I skipped Chapter Three of The Count of Monte Cristo.He knew my habits. He knew my tastes. He knew my weaknesses.But Aaron Wylder had made one fatal mistake in his years of observation. He had watched me as a subject, as a "thing" to be protected and possessed. He had seen the girl who survived the fosters
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