Morgan VanderWeele

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Taking a hard left, I stop outside her door. A fucking door. A basic-ass beige door with patterns carved into the wood. She’s hiding something. And I’m about to squeeze it out of her. I don’t bother knocking, but the natural scent hits me in the face and almost catches me off guard. I haven’t been in here for a long time.
War and his Queen (Carpe Noctem)
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