Not a breath was drawn. The slim knife was wrested from her grasp, and she was flung backwards, towards the bookcases. And she would have rushed to him, if she had not been forcibly withheld by her son. A few seasons went by where he initiated her into the disgusting rituals of killing and eating human beings, a dark time where she pined for a rescuer who never arrived. Then he took me out to Monteaux, on a motor. She should have slapped him but she was in shock at her own thoughts of lust that arose. .
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