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... dy froze.
When I looked back, I noticed Rosaluna standing there at the entrance of the door with one hand resting on it.
Rosaluna’s delicate pink eyes—soft as sakura petals in moonlight—shifted from my face to the bed, and then down, down, as her gaze followed the pale curve of our mother’s thigh to where the hem of her gown had risen, caught and bunched above her hips, just enough to expose a sliver of white cotton stretched taut across her mound, parted slightly in sleep. A wet ...
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