His Poisoned Rose
My little warrior.
I want to devour her.
I want to protect her.
I want both, and the contradictions make my blood sing.
Her breath stirs against my throat, warm, fragile. I lower my head, whispering into her hair, words I would never dare let her hear awake:
“You will never leave me, Rosalina. Not in this life, not in the next.”
The city blurs past outside, but I don’t see Paris anymore. I see only her—her fingers tangled with mine, her heartbeat steady against me.
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