The Royal Mate Of The Cursed Lycan King
“No. Hell no. He had it coming. I’ve let him and his precious little fan club step on me for years. If anything, I was nice about it.”
With a huff, I stomp my foot, spin on my heel, and march forward again. My legs are just dragging me wherever they please at this point. Maybe straight into the jaws of a rogue. Wouldn’t that be poetic?
Also—I smell like death. Not like actual death, more like… the essence of it. Spoiled tomatoes, stale milk, something fruity and rotten I can’t even identify, and, what’s that? Oh yeah. Roasted chicken. What kind of disgusting buffet am I carrying on my skin right now?
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