“Just a house?” Remy gapes at him, an odd flash of anger building in his eyes. “She’s sheltered you, hasn’t she? Showed you her secret places? She’s let you in, kept you safe, and made you a part of her soul.” When all he gets is our silent, blank stare, Remy growls, pointing to a spot on the molding all the way in the top corner by the closet. “Here, you see? You put your initials—your real initials—into the heart of her. WCK.” Wicker squints his eyes. “What, that little carving? I put those there in fifth grade.” “Exactly,” Remy says, nodding. “You showed her who you were. Called dibs. Don’t
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