Macee Grisenti

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“Because you were an Avramov,” he said softly, the cords of his neck flexing as he swallowed. “And I didn’t think any of you belonged around animals.” I closed my eyes for a second, the injustice of it beating inside me like a pair of thrashing wings, outrage shooting through my veins even as my stomach wrung itself like a rag.
From Bad to Cursed (The Witches of Thistle Grove, #2)
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