Miguel's POV The steam from the shower was still thick in the guest wing bathroom, clinging to my skin like a humid shroud. I didn't turn on the light. I didn't want to see my own face in the mirror, the face of a man who was supposed to be a professional, a ghost, a soldier for a dead man.I sat on the closed toilet lid, my breath hitching as I pulled up the photo on my phone. It was a photo of Rose. She was wearing that red dress, a deep blood crimson silk that looked like it had been poured over her porcelain skin. Her dark hair was a spill of midnight across her shoulders, and those light brown eyes... they looked straight through the lens, straight into the dark, rotted parts of my soul.My hand went down to my sweatpants, my fingers trembling as I freed myself. I was already rock hard, a painful, throbbing ache that had been building since the moment I woke up. I closed my eyes, picturing her in her room, the way her lips felt under mine, soft, hesitant, tasting like desperatio
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