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... in my chest. The familiar scents of herbs and spices that usually bring comfort now seem cloying and oppressive. The air is thick with tension, almost crackling with an electric charge.

Sirre stands at the counter, her back to me, her shoulders rigid with barely contained fury. Her hands grip the edge of the wooden surface, knuckles white with strain. I can see the muscles in her arms trembling slightly, like a predator ready to pounce.

"Honey," I say softly, my voice barely abov ...

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