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Summary
Sinbad's eyes lid, sated. “I love you in the same way others might love their gods.”
“How romantic,” Judar mocked, resting a hand on his bare waist, hair still holding despite the long wisps that fell from the back. “You should’ve been a hermit or a poet, you might actually do your job right for a change, king.”
He didn’t get a verbal response―just that entertained, patronizing smile that always stitched itself onto Sinbad’s features.