RAVEN'S POVA knife pressed against my throat. Not sliced, not yet, but close enough that I could feel the keenness each time I swallowed. Marco panted hotly against my neck, minted breath and something darker."Your dad's hands were soft," Marco said conversationally. “Artist’s hands, my mother would say. He could mold dough into anything. With birds, flowers, little animals for the kiddie pies.”My voice wouldn't work. My whole body was rigid, still gripped by that primal fear of flesh against steel. I could make out my guards on the ground, passed out but breathing."What do you want?" The words came out as a rasp."What your father stole. What he died protecting." Marco's fingers followed the edges of the recipe book I was still holding. “He was a sly one, them hiding under our noses. In the recipes his daughter would use, would commit to memory, would carry with her forever.”“I don’t know what you are referring to.”"Don't you? Look at the book, Raven. Really look at it. Those a
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