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Lydbog

Om denne bog

Wed him. Bed him. Slit his throat.

I killed the king. Crowned myself in his blood, but the curse still festers.

To break it, I need Death, on his knees, a ring on his finger. My blade at his throat.

The god fights me to the grave, evades my touch, mocks my wanting.

He would rather tear himself apart than let me close enough to end this. But I didn't come this far to lose. I came to crown him mine.

Welcome to your wedding, my love.

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