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... uldn’t lie, not when she was pressed against him, and not when the metallic coldness of his skin was likely leaching the warmth right out of her.
He looked down at his marble-white hand buried in her hair. The contrast was sickening; his fingers looked like they belonged to a statue in a mausoleum, not a living boy.
"...I’m not," Aden responded quietly. "But I’ve got it under control, I promise."
The guilt he had painstakingly tried to surpress hammered against him as he ...
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