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Marry me, Rachel.”Not yet.”Tomorrow, Rachel. Marry me.”Maybe tomorrow.”There is no common blood between us. Say it,’ pleads Zachariah.’There is no common blood between us,’ murmurs Rachel.’I am not your brother.”I know.’He traces her face with his swollen fingers, across the brow bones and down the zygomatics, and along the jaw from earlobe to chin, sweeping away the brine as he goes.’I am your Wolff,’ he says.’And I am your Wolff,’ she replies.Let the day begin.
