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Summary
At the base of human desire is the urge to belong, however that takes its shape. Cerise is over one hundred years old and still doesn’t know what belonging looks like.
Cerise Whitethorn is nothing and no one. Her only worth is in the blood oath she swore to Maeve, Queen of the Fae. She is known only by her orders, by her oath. She is the White Death. But what is she when the oath is broken?