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... en look, I throw a punch in their direction.

But it’s not one of the armed assailants—it’s Phoenix.

My brother’s face is set in grim lines, his mouth a tight slash of determination. My fist is held by his hand as though I’m a child throwing a tantrum—with the ease of someone far more powerful than me.

He lets go and cuts my seatbelt with a knife before grabbing me in an almost painful grip.

Ivy is still slumped in the backseat beside me, a trickle of blood oozing ...

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