rosemonde
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Of all things, he has assured her, I have no horror of blood.
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"Such the virile young bull. Too much seed for my womb to take. We must get it out of you somehow."
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When she wakes in the violet dark of early morning, it takes only a single throb of fear to discern what figure stands at the room's center, leaning his narrow weight against the table's edge.
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Queen and confessor play a game of punishment.
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The queen makes a wish.