HER MOTHER HAD WARNED HER ABOUT BOYS. The kind of boys with vicious smiles and a mad glint in their gold and light and everything pure eyes. But Azriel Turner didn't have eyes of gold and light and everything pure eyes. Azriel Turner didn't wear vicious smiles and mad glints.

Azriel Turner had eyes of ash and stardust that only seemed to look at her. He was rust and gleam, iron and steel, the calm after a storm. He was sweet smiles and crooked teeth and messy hair and toffee skin. He was the darkest hour of dusk, sunlight on bare skin, a breath of fresh air.

Azriel Turner was hers. The innocent boy with toffee skin and crooked teeth would be hers alone for coffee dates and whispering iloveyouiloveyouiloveyou.

Azriel Turner, Azriel Turner, Azriel Turner. It was all she could see. Eyes of ash and stardust captivated her to the point of even the sun couldn't compare. She was already gone, they said. Too caught up in his games too see clearly.

But Reagan knew it wasn't true.

Because she wasn't her mother.

And Azriel Turner wasn't her father.