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    Summary

    The brand was shaped like a stylized sun—Marius’s mark, his sigil. Once seared into Armand’s flesh, it would mean: this one is mine.

    Armand looked down at the brand, then to Marius's face. He could see the strain there, hidden beneath that marble mask: Marius enjoyed this. That was the truth of love, he supposed, when it came from something like Marius. It was sharp-edged and full of fire.

    “Be still, Amadeo,” he murmured.

    Language:
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