They were all the same. All of them. And Ivan, who had spent his entire life being the wall, being the weapon, being the thing that broke so others didn't have to, had found his place among men who understood exactly what she was worth.
He didn't care about the sharing. He'd thought he would. In the beginning. The jealousy was still there, a low, burning coal behind his ribs that flared every time another man touched her, but it was survivable. Because every night, without fail, she turned to him. She smiled at him. She pressed her small hand against his scarred chest and said his name like it meant something, and that was enough. That was everything.
Damien returned with the cloth, warm and damp, and held it out. Ivan took it without looking away from her.
