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    Summary

    “I want your cunt, though, not your hand. You haven’t the skill for it.”

    Whatever fleeting good humor Aerion possessed vanished in an instant. His face burned with hot color as he snarled, “You forget you are speaking to a prince and not some bedwhore.”

    Daeron could not seem to help himself. “There’s hardly a difference now, is there?”

    Or, on the road to the Ashford Tourney, a sober Daeron and an ambitious Aerion discover that even mutual loathing can be negotiated.

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