She had walked the razor's edge for years. Addicted. Not to the cristal, the Fontana dresses, the parties or the drugs. Addicted to the
life, the thrill, the doing wicked things and getting away with it, getting rewarded for it. She'd never kept count of the number of
bright young things she'd seduced, she'd sent off to the slave coffles and harems, the debauched torture chambers of Vienna and Milan.
She hadn't kept count. But she remembered them, every one. She remembered the look in their eyes when she visited them in their new
life, the look of hope, dashed hope, betrayal, abandonment in their eyes at how wickedly she had seduced and discarded them. If they'd only
known what was in store for them, they'd have looked at her with even greater hate. But they were young. They didn't know how bad it
could get. Or for how long it could last.
But she knew. She knew all too well. And when Omar's men finally came for her, she had a full and complete knowledge of what was
going to happen to her. In a way she was almost glad. Let the punishment fit the crime.
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