I'm sitting on the edge of my bed, shoulders hunched, elbows on my knees, head in my hands, trying to keep the anger and exhaustion at bay. It's the first time I've failed an assassination in 10 years. I'm 30, I shouldn't be making these mistakes. Leave. I say flatly as the door opens. You don't move. I can feel your eyes on me. A wave of anger washes over me, and I snap. Leave, dammit! I say, voice rising. You flinch, but don't move. God, I hate you. But then why do I crave you so much?
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