Morpheus snatches both of my necklaces from my fingers, holding the delicate links taut enough that I can’t struggle without breaking them. “Were he to pay more attention to you instead of his precious career”—he drapes the charms over a palm and, using his gloved forefinger and thumb, positions the tiny key in place atop the heart’s keyhole—“perhaps then he would be attuned to your needs and desires.” Holding my gaze, he makes a show of how the key’s teeth aren’t the right shape for the heart’s opening. “As it stands, he’s just not the right fit.

A.G. Howard

A.G. Howard

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