His eyes scan the letter again, darting back and forth as the blood drains from his face.

“Sel? Selwyn?”

I reach for the paper, and he doesn’t resist when I slip it from his slack fingers. The mixture of horror and shock contorting his face, marring his beautiful, precise features, sends a cold blade into my heart.

“Read it.” His usually sonorous voice scrapes the quiet of the room.

“Maybe—”

“Read it, Bree,” he repeats, a fierce command threaded through his words.

I do. I read the story of his mother.