"Now my woman is in danger, not only from me but from my enemies." Edgar puffed at his pipe calmly. "You said 'my woman.' You love this woman?" Mikhail waved a dismissing hand. "She is mine." It was a statement, a decree. How could he say "love"? It was an insipid word for what he felt. She was purity. Goodness. Compassion. The other half of his soul. Light to his darkness. Everything that he was not."