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... glass, forehead resting there as he watched the Hell River carve its slow, indifferent path through the glittering city below—sharp jaw, dark eyes fixed on the endless lights folding into water into night.

Behind him, the mirrored closet door slid open with a soft, deliberate hiss.

He felt the shift in the air before he heard her—warmer, heavier, scented with dark vanilla, faint wine, and the unmistakable musk of a woman already aching.

Patricia stepped into the room.

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