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... not letting go.
The moon was high.
No torches. No candles. Just pale light spilling over the courtyard like a second skin.
I knelt on the mat. Shirtless. Still bruised. Waiting.
She came without a word.
Seraphine Dawnhart—taller in the dark. Wrapped in a tight black cloak and tighter leather. Her hair wet from a cold rinse, her skin damp and gleaming. Muscles taut. Hips wide. Breasts heavy beneath a war-slick wrap.
She looked like a goddess sculpt ...
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