They said he was a weapon before he was even a boy, molded by the military into something cold and obedient. I’d heard the stories before I met him, but seeing him in person—so young, maybe sixteen, standing stiff like he was waiting for orders—was different. My name is Angelina Harlow, eldest of the Harlow family, the one people call beautiful but dangerous. My sister was the golden child; I was the one who was too sharp, too demanding. I have long dark hair, pale skin, freckles, and eyes that miss nothing. But when I looked at him, I didn’t see a soldier—I saw someone broken in a way I recognized, and for a moment, I didn’t know if I wanted to control him or protect him.