“As Lothaire lifted the lid with a sense of dread, Nïx murmured, “Hint: it’s the middle one.”Elizabeth’s fragile finger.Seeing it severed like this brought on a visceral reaction—pain shooting through his own hand, radiating throughout his regenerated heart. He closed the lid with a swallow, sentimentally pocketing the package.“You gave her your heart, and she gave you the bird.” Nïx sighed. “Songs will be written about this.”
Kresley Cole
Lothaire
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