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... room went still.
Gareth’s greasy face drained of all color. His eyes—beady, rat-like—locked onto Viktor standing there in his apron, spatula still in hand like some domestic husband.
It was the look in Viktor’s eyes.
"Y-Young Lord—" Gareth’s voice cracked.
He moved.
Fast.
Faster than a man his age and build should’ve been able to. His body dropped, knees hitting the wooden floor with a sickening ’thud’. His hands pressed flat, forehead slamming dow ...
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