“A good sign of what?” I ask, hugging the towel close and coming over to her, the floor cold against my soles. “That he likes you,” she says, flashing me a bright smile before rummaging again. I laugh. “Likes me? I’m his prisoner. He’s literally promised to ruin and destroy me for eternity.” “Ah, he says a lot of things,” she says. “His bark is worse than his bite. I mean, most of the time. Sure, sometimes he’ll randomly give someone,” she lowers her voice dramatically and wiggles her fingers, “the hand,” then she smiles “but who doesn’t lose their temper every now and then? Besides, you’re
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