The Wistful Mountain
The knife bit into the side of his thigh, a hot, wet tear that split the dark fabric of his trousers. Elias Vance did not flinch. He stood in the center of the kitchen, the linoleum cold and slick under his bare feet, while the blood pooled in a dark, spreading halo around his ankles. Across the room, holding the blade with a grip that trembled only slightly, was Julian. Julian, his husband of...
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