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Chapter 8 His Grip

His voice was low—a tone too cold for anger, steeped instead in the mockery of someone savoring a cruel jest.

His oppressive presence suffocated her; every breath he drew sandpapered her lungs as she strove futilely against him.

But her struggles were feeble; she was no match for him. Her efforts to resist only led to her arm being pinned back with calculated force, her body pressed flush against the soft leather seat beneath her, the material buckling and ...

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