She shouldn’t have listened. Shouldn’t have let him in. Fools gold spun in his hair, mouth stuffed with pearls. A pretty picture, hiding the ice.

With charm, slick as oil, he slithered into her life. Her home, her bed, her blood.

He should have been warry of his little dandelion. Weeds tend to grow, no matter where their seed falls.

His ice will be no match for her wild fire.

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