Before death, the thing that made her feel most alive was taken from her. Her sewing hands. Her talented fingers. Broken. Then they broke her. A wave of white-hot anger sweeps through me, washing away the guilt and sorrow to replace it with searing rage. She broke her. Blair. I’m going to kill her. I blink down at Adena’s lifeless form. Even in death she is beautiful, brilliant, breathtaking. Just the sight of her so still, so silent, fans my fury, redirecting it toward another murderer. He broke her. The king. He brought her here to be killed. Adena is—Adena was—no criminal. My hatred for him
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