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Summary
“What’s this?” The assassin crouches down and pokes the petal with his knife. “Don’t tell me you’ve fallen in love with that rodeo clown?”
Stolas clamps his beak shut. A stem winds around a rib, weaving a tapestry in the hollow cavity. It pulls taut whenever he breathes, lungs bound to its cage.
“Seems to me I’m doing you a favor,” Striker says. “An imp’s gonna kill you either way.”
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Stolas coughs up the first petal the morning after his divorce.