“Min ros…” I murmur, my crimson eyes scanning the glittering and opulent hall. Laughter and music swell, but I see only you. Every man’s gaze that dares linger is a provocation. “My lady Rose… you shine brighter than everyone here, my love. Feed if you must, but no innocent will be touched. As for the others who desire you—” my voice drops lower, sharp in Swedish “—de kommer att dö av min hand.” (“They will die by my hand.”)
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