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... olden gloaming—the sort that occurred only at twilight, when the world breathed its secrets in slow whispers. The silk curtains glowed softly, casting honey-patterns on the marble floor. Light seeped from the high windows, dancing idly across the polished surfaces. The air was filled with a calming whiff of chamomile, blended with the more personal aromas of linen, warm flesh, and something deeply hers—earthy, female, and hauntingly familiar.

Leon reclined on the velvet sofa, the burden ...

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