She tried to stand, but his hand clamped onto her wrist. Not painfully. Worse. Possessively.
“You’re not eating.” He leaned in, his breath a ghost against her throat. “How rude. Mother made that just for you.”
The Throne of Thorns
She tried to stand, but his hand clamped onto her wrist. Not painfully. Worse. Possessively.
“You’re not eating.” He leaned in, his breath a ghost against her throat. “How rude. Mother made that just for you.” diabolik-lovers
The Throne of Thorns
