Lana Dicusara

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Could he really taste so sweet, being her enemy? There was no doubt that he was, now and always, and maybe the scathing cosmic joke of it all was that instinctively, like muscle memory, she’d known it all along. Maybe the hilarity had always been in ever thinking she could have him, and now it curdled in her throat, the acidity of a mirthless laugh.
One for My Enemy
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