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“Thank you. For not killing me.”
“You’re welcome.”
That faint sardonic curve touches her lips one more time, brief and sharp, before she closes her eyes.
The darkness beyond the wards seems less hungry.
She’s a problem. A variable I can’t control, predict, or safely categorize.
And I’m going to keep her anyway.
The night deepens around us. The fire burns low. The witch sleeps with one hand curled near her throat, fingers brushing the pulse point where her blood beats steady and alive.
