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And Mercia, always so cool, so unruffled, so sneering and far too amused by everything to ever betray shock, looked, well, a mess. Hair plastered to his face, he swayed on his feet. His eyes gleamed in the scant light, and his lip trembled as it curved like he was trying to smile back but the threatening tears were winning.
Through Dark Storms (Beneath Black Sails, #4)
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