PREVIEW
... e sleepy weight of a child who didn't yet understand the dangers of the world. He was four years old, and in his little universe, stories always had happy endings.
His mother, standing by the counter with a warm mug of cinnamon tea in her hands, smiled down at him. Her dark hair was loose over her shoulders, and her amber eyes glowed softly under the dim light of the penthouse.
"A story, hmm?" she mused, taking a slow sip of her tea. "And what kind of story does my little star wa ...
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