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“But you smell of Casteel.” I jolted at the sound of his name. His real name. “I am wearing his shirt.” “That’s not the kind of smell I’m talking about.”
Naomyhar citeretsidste år
Because Hawke wasn’t his name. And we hadn’t made love. He’d fucked me.
Naomyhar citeretsidste år
“Was any of it true?”
Naomyhar citeretsidste år
“Poppy. Stop—” “I hate you!”
Naomyhar citeretsidste år
my head doesn’t…go quiet. It replays things over and over,”
Naomyhar citeretsidste år
The pain and anger were still there. But Hawke was so warm, and his embrace was…gods, it felt like hope, like a promise that I wouldn’t always feel this way
Naomyhar citeretsidste år
Sometimes remembering those who died means facing your own mortality,