Jules Arata

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I’m so caught up in my little ritual that I don’t pay any attention to the sudden pinpricks at the back of my neck, that innate sense of being watched. I’ve completely let my guard down and the faint rustle of clothing a moment later is the only warning I get that I’m not alone, but before I can do anything about it, a man’s voice murmurs behind me, far too close for comfort:
The Matchmaker
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