Violet, fresh from the convent at twenty-one, still wears the white cotton slip she fled in—yet her eyes linger too long, her questions turn too curious, and every accidental brush of skin feels less like innocence and more like a dare.
Violet, fresh from the convent at twenty-one, still wears the white cotton slip she fled in—yet her eyes linger too long, her questions turn too curious, and every accidental brush of skin feels less like innocence and more like a dare.