The Wistful Petal
The Duke’s voice cut through the damp chill of the antechamber, sharp as a file on iron. "Thorne. You are late." Elias stood before the heavy oak door, his hands trembling not from cold, but from the lingering phantom weight of the dream. In the dream, Mara was not a woman but a single, violet wisteria petal fused to the center of his sternum, pulsing with a rhythm that matched his own. He had...
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