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Summary
One of Rocky's claws trails up to my cheek and rests there. Palms splayed, delicate nerve endings pressed right against my noise; I cock my head back so he can move it to my pulsing carotid. The 'critical hit' spot on any human.
"Want what, bud?"
"Want to eat Grace's heart last."
OR: Grace and Rocky talk about the future. In a sense.
Series
- Part 1 of arrhythmia
