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The wind outside was screaming like a downed elk, but inside, the only sound was the heavy, rhythmic thud of Julian’s heart against my ear.
The studio smelled of ozone and expensive dust, a sterile environment where he planned to dissect me with a high-definition lens.
His thumbs found the knot in my shoulder with the practiced, ruthless precision of a man shucking oysters for a hungry crowd.
Her palm was a flat, hot weight against my sternum, and for a second I forgot how to breathe, how to be anything but clay.