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... escaped him as the bruises panged.

He managed to drag himself to the old first-aid kit in his room.

"Ah, great! No cotton wool? I’m a lucky man!" Syril complained to himself sarcastically, still crawling pathetically.

He picked a cloth from his closet and wetted it with drops of methylated alcohol. He then gently applied on the bruises. Well, not without screams from the alcohol burn.

"Curses on Ashley!" Syril screamed as he treated himself. All thanks to the att ...

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“Yes, milord. You’re good at it, literally.” I’m mortified, watching the pieces of the heart fall as he approached. His every step made me take a step back until my back reached a solid pillar.

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“Hm,” Sarah answered curtly, not looking at Michael.

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