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“The machinations of the Hunt will continue to haunt these lands,” Flins tells Varka, a kiss left to the strong line of his jaw. “Cleansing takes time.”
“Then the wind can’t take me home yet.” Varka’s hands are rough, calloused, and the pads of fingers press to the soft lines of Flins’s waist. Drop to Flins’s front, to thumb at hip bones and down to the crease of thighs.
- Varka and Flins indulge on a rare day off, and in turn, indulge in one another come morning.
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