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Summary
“You’re going to kill me,” Diomedes says one evening. There is still blood in his hair and up his arms and calves and splattered across his face and he’s kneeling all pretty and soft and sweet at his feet, gently unwinding the slippery leather straps, because his own hands shake and ache and tremble. He doesn’t look up as he says it, his gaze focused with that typical single minded determination.
Series
- Part 5 of Wishbone