“I know you don’t do things for me for free,” Rafe says. “What do you want?” Inhaling deeply, soaking in the aroma of stale cigars and expensive liquor, I smother the grin threatening at my lips. My heart rate kicks up, relief taking the place of violence. My mind travels to the poem I once left for Elena, a promise and threat rolled into one. I just hadn’t known it at the time. Dis, almost in a moment, saw her, prized her, took her: so swift as this, is love. The Rape of Proserpine. Not love, but something far more sinister and deadly in this case. I think about the picture burning a hole
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