Jessyca Simonsen

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The air in the room was electric. I could practically see the sparks flying between us. But they weren’t the romantic, will-they-won’t-they sparks. These were the kind that burned things to the ground. The kind that destroyed everything in their wake. Through my window, the late afternoon sun bathed his face in golden glow and shadows.
Things We Left Behind (Knockemout, #3)
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