The Distant Threshold
The dream did not begin with a fade, as dreams often do, but with the sharp, metallic snap of a button tearing. It was a sound so specific, so violent in its intimacy, that Elias Thorne woke with the taste of copper on his tongue and the phantom sensation of silk sliding off his shoulder. He lay in the center of his bed, a four-poster of dark mahogany that had been his wife’s favorite piece of...
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