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... ss—not the door, but the cot’s frame as Rhea shifted, her wrists chafing against the cuffs still chaining her to its headrail. Morning light leaked through the boarded slits, pale and cold, illuminating the stark gray walls and her sprawled form—crimson hair a sweaty, tangled mess plastered to her scarred shoulders, undershirt clinging damp to her flushed skin.
The cuffs had held her all night, red welts blooming where she’d tugged, desperate to ease the aching tension coiled tight in he ...
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