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... r drawn by instinct. Shirtless, his chest glistened faintly with sweat, muscles carved and tense beneath the moonlight.
Scars mapped his torso like forgotten battles, each one telling a story she hadn’t yet heard. His hair was damp, tousled from the night air, and his eyes . . . gods, those eyes. Glowing amber like molten gold, locked on her with the intensity of a storm about to break.
There was no mistaking it. Lyander didn’t just walk—he prowled. Dangerous. Magnetic. The kind ...
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