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... e always did—hips carving a challenge into the air, heels cracking like gunshots. The room still reeked of her: defiance and violence. Aria.

Every muscle in my body locked. Don't follow. Don't fucking move. But my hands trembled. My pulse roared in my ears, feral, hungry. She'd left a goddamn handkerchief on the chair.

A scrap of fabric, crumpled like the aftermath of a fight. Or a bed. Another object to leave a mark, almost intentional—like a bait. Something I would blindly take ...

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