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Tristan was a Ghostwalker, a rare breed of Windrider who could hide in plain sight thanks to wings lined with camouflaging feathers.
“I need to know what to call you when you haunt my dreams,” he said, flashing her his widest, most charming smile yet.
His body went rigid, eyes cold and pledging violent death. “Who did this to you?” “It doesn’t matter, it’s over.” “Who did this?” A strained whisper through grinding teeth.
