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Tears streak my cheeks and he grabs me.

“You’re not a monster,” I whisper. “You’re not. It’s not your fault your mother chose you.”

Without looking back, he leads me away,

Away from the veranda,

Into the gardens.

“I saw the sanatorium,” I whisper, and I turn into his tuxedo jacket, hiding my face. “I know you were there when you were small. I know they tied you to your bed and called you a monster. Am I crazy?”

“You’re not crazy,” his words are gentle, and it’s a soft tone I haven’t heard from him in awhile. My walls come crumbling down, and I cry.

The next few minutes are a blur.

I reach for him,

he pulls me close.

His breath is sweet,

his shirt is starchy and smells of rain,

musk,

and man.

His hands are everywhere,

Firm,

Strong,

And perfect.

His lips are full,

Yet

Soft.

His tongue finds mine,

Moist,

Minty.

His heart beats hard,

The sound harsh in the dark,

And I cling to his chest,

Whispering his name.

“Dare, I…”

“Let’s leave,” he suggests. “Let’s leave it all behind. Let’s spin the wheel and the chips will fall. Things will change but they can’t get worse. Let’s go, Calla. Come with me.”

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