Chapter 135 The Hostage Game
The scent of lavender oil and old paper lingered in the air, a lie dressed in elegance.
Genevieve blinked back the blur as the blindfold was yanked away. Her skull throbbed from the blow, and something warm tickled her temple, blood, slow and sticky. Her wrists were cinched tightly with leather restraints to a polished antique chair, the kind you’d find in a French parlor, not a prison. Even in captivity, Everett clung to performance.
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