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... h the rawness of her throat. Blood clung to her clothes, a dark, sticky second skin, hot and wet against her ribs. Her shoulder hung limp, the bone grinding beneath torn flesh. Every heartbeat screamed in protest, but still, she refused to fall.
Usui stood in front of her—barely. His body was a portrait of agony: a limp katana dragged in his left hand, his other arm useless at his side, bleeding freely. One of his eyes was swollen shut, and his lip was split, the blood seeping down to hi ...
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