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Summary
Ilya was not the jealous type; if he told himself this enough times, it would become true. It used to be true, before Rose fucking Landry—who could be photographed holding Shane's hand all over Canada; who could dance up against him in stupid Montreal clubs; who was beautiful and wonderful and perfect enough that Shane had—at least briefly—overcome his mortal allergy to pussy.
But he's not going to say anything. Because he's not jealous.
