The Third Key

A Steamy FFF Sapphic Polyamorous Romance
by Isla Wilde

Available at all major retailers

Pairing: FFF (Sapphic Polyamory)
Heat: 🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️ Inferno
Tropes: Polyamory (FFF Triad), Married Couple, Enemies to Lovers, Grumpy/Sunshine, Renovation Romance, Innkeeper, Small Town, Snowed In, Voyeurism, Control/Surrender, Light Bondage, Strap-On, Competence Kink, Closed Triad

She married one of them. She hired the other. Nobody planned on the third key.

Mara Vale checks every latch twice. Twelve years with Celia, nine of them married, fourteen months renovating Alder House, a lakeside inn on the edge of a small town, and a contingency budget she knows to the dollar. She hires a furniture conservator for three weeks. Fixed scope. Priority list attached.

Wren Calder reads the list, tells her it’s in the wrong order, and refuses to veneer the burn scar on the inn’s 1890s sideboard. I don’t hide damage, Ms. Vale. I make it sound. Then she pries a board off the east wing, the room Celia dreams of turning into a teaching studio, and finds eleven feet of rot.

Celia Hart is the warm one. The one guests thank. The one who has never once been chased. Twelve years ago she and Mara made a pact on a Provincetown porch: never a guest, and never without telling each other first. So Celia tells her wife, in their bed, that the furniture woman is extremely hot.

Wren has terms of her own. She won’t be a secret. She won’t be anybody’s matching chair. If either of them wants her, they ask her themselves, separately, and nobody decides anything about her in a kitchen she isn’t standing in.

A truck at a lake turnout. A sideboard and the word ask. A nor’easter that snows all three of them into a candlelit library with one leather armchair and a woman in it, watching. And a number Mara can’t bring herself to say out loud, sitting in a spreadsheet on the one line in the plan that could move.

Wren has been decided about before, kindly, by people who loved her. Mara has never once let anyone take the wheel. And the only way three people get to keep each other is if all three of them are in the room.

The Third Key is a high-heat, standalone FFF sapphic polyamorous romance with a married couple, a closed triad, three points of view, no cheating, and an HEA guaranteed. Explicit content. 18+.

You’ll love this book if you enjoy:

✅ A married couple who tell each other first, and a woman who makes each of them ask her separately
✅ Enemies to lovers between a latch-checking inn owner and a blunt conservator who won’t veneer a sideboard
✅ A sunshine wife who finally gets chased instead of thanked
✅ Snowed in by a nor’easter: firelight, forty candles, and a wife watching from a leather armchair
✅ Hands flat on a burn scar and one word, ask; a green silk scarf; a harness that changes hands
✅ Restoration as romance: hide glue, butterfly keys, and damage that gets made sound instead of hidden
✅ Grown women who fix it by talking: real apologies, real rules, a door that actually latches
✅ No cheating, 🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️ heat, and a closed-triad HEA with three names on the lease

Buy Now

Get the Bonus Chapter →

⚠️ Content Warning: This novel contains extremely explicit sexual content (graphic FF and FFF scenes throughout, including oral, fingering, tribbing, toys including a wand vibrator and a strap-on, squirting, light bondage with a silk scarf, edging and orgasm control, voyeurism and mutual masturbation, and threesomes), strong language, and alcohol. Also includes financial stress, references to childhood poverty and an injured parent, the end of a past polyamorous relationship, and a lie of omission between partners with real fallout and repair. No cheating: every new relationship is disclosed and agreed to. Intended for readers 18+.

📖 Read Chapter One Free

Not sure yet? Read all of Chapter One right here.

Chapter One: Mara

The front door of Alder House had a brass latch older than the state’s building code, and Mara Vale checked it twice before she went out onto the porch to meet the woman who was going to tell her what was worth saving.

Click. Lift. Click.

Locked was a word she trusted. Most words weren’t.

At 8:57 a green Ford pickup came up the drive, gravel spitting under the tires, a ladder rack bolted to the bed and a hand-painted sign on the door that read CALDER — CONSERVATION & REPAIR in letters so precise they looked machined. The truck parked exactly where the email had told it to park. Mara approved of that before she could stop herself.

The driver got out.

Mara had expected someone older. Restorers in her experience were men in their sixties with reading glasses on a cord and opinions about varnish dating to the Carter administration. This was a woman, early thirties at most, compact and built like she carried her own lumber. Cropped dark-blond hair, a little shaggy at the nape. A flannel shirt with the left elbow patched in a completely different plaid, as if she’d decided the repair should be honest about itself. Jeans gone pale at the thighs. Boots that had been resoled at least once.

She pulled a canvas tool roll from the cab, tucked it under her arm, and looked up at the inn the way a doctor looks at an X-ray.

Not at Mara. At the house.

“Wren Calder,” she said when she reached the steps, and held out her hand.

Mara shook it. Calluses across the palm, a thin pale scar running from the base of the thumb toward the wrist, another nick across two knuckles. A strong grip that didn’t try to prove anything. Wren let go first.

“Mara Vale. I handle operations.”

“You handle the money.”

“I handle everything that costs money.”

“So everything.” Wren’s eyes finally came to her face. Gray, almost colorless in the morning light, and frankly assessing. “Your email said three weeks, fixed scope, assessment and restoration of salvageable furnishings, priority list attached. I read the list.”

“And?”

“And it’s a good list. It’s in the wrong order.” She stepped past Mara into the foyer without waiting to be invited, which should have irritated Mara more than it did. “But I’ll tell you that when I’ve seen everything.”

Mara followed her in and resisted, barely, the urge to check the latch a third time.

The tour took ninety minutes, because Wren touched everything.

She ran her thumb along the edge of the dining-room chairs and turned two of them upside down without asking. She knelt in front of the library bookcases and pressed her cheek almost to the floor to sight along the bottom rail. She opened every drawer in the writing desk, smelled the inside of the third one, and said, “Mice. Years ago. Fine now.” In the upstairs hall she pressed her palm to a mahogany wardrobe and stood there with her eyes half closed like she was listening for a heartbeat.

Mara walked a step behind with her clipboard and her timeline, saying things like we need the dining set by Thanksgiving and the guest rooms are first priority and opening is the third weekend of December, that’s not moving, and Wren said “mm” to all of it in a tone that committed to nothing.

“Do you always do this?” Mara finally asked, as Wren crouched to inspect the casters on a bedside table.

“Do what?”

“Feel everything up.”

Wren glanced over her shoulder. The corner of her mouth twitched, not quite a smile. “You can’t tell what’s wrong with something by looking at it. People paint over all kinds of things.”

“That sounds like a slogan.”

“It’s a job description.” She stood, brushed her knees, and made a note in a battered pocket notebook with a carpenter’s pencil. “Your dining chairs are good. Your bedside tables are veneer over particleboard from about 1985 and I wouldn’t touch them with someone else’s hands. The wardrobe in Room Four is the best piece in the house after one other thing. Where’s the other thing?”

“What other thing?”

“There’s always one.”

Mara hadn’t planned to show her the sideboard yet. She’d planned to end with it, a final line item, settled quickly. But Wren was already moving toward the stairs as if she could smell it, and Mara found herself leading her down to the reception hall where it stood against the east wall under a sheet.

She pulled the sheet away.

It was an 1890s Eastlake sideboard in black walnut, seven feet long, with incised geometric carving along the gallery and brass pulls gone green at the edges. It was the most beautiful object Alder House owned and the reason Mara and Celia had bought the inn instead of the cheaper farmhouse in Cortland. And across the top, running nearly the full length of it, was a burn scar the color of old coffee, the grain blistered and darkened in a long uneven stripe where, according to the previous owner, an oil lamp had gone over in 1974 and nobody had noticed for a full minute.

Wren set her tool roll down on the floor and laid both hands flat on either side of the scar.

Mara watched those hands. She didn’t mean to.

“Celia found it when we did the walkthrough,” she said, because silence made her want to fill it with facts. “We’ve had three people look at it. The consensus is to strip the top, lay new walnut veneer over the damaged section, and finish it to match. It’ll look like it came out of the shop yesterday.”

“No.”

Mara blinked. “Excuse me?”

“No,” Wren said again, mildly, the way someone might decline a second cup of coffee. “I won’t do that.”

“I’m not asking you to do it as a favor. It’s on the list. It’s item six.”

“I know where it is on the list. I’m telling you I won’t do it.” Wren traced the edge of the burn with one fingertip. “The top’s solid. The char’s maybe a sixteenth deep in the worst spot. I can stabilize it, clean it, fill the checking, and refinish it so it’s sound and it shines. The scar stays.”

“The scar is the problem.”

“The scar is the history. The problem would be pretending it didn’t happen and gluing a skin over it.” Wren straightened and looked at her directly. “I don’t hide damage, Ms. Vale. I make it sound.”

“That is a beautiful philosophy for something that isn’t sitting in my lobby.”

“It’s sitting in your lobby now.”

“Guests are going to walk in, and the first thing they see is going to be a giant burn mark.”

“The first thing they’re going to see is a hundred-and-thirty-year-old sideboard that survived a fire.” Wren tilted her head. “That’s a better story than it came out of the shop yesterday. Nobody books a weekend at a nineteenth-century inn because they want things that came out of the shop yesterday.”

“I’m paying you,” Mara said, and heard how it sounded, and said it anyway, “to do what’s on the list.”

Wren considered her. Then she picked up her tool roll.

“Then hire someone who lies to you,” she said. “There are plenty of them. I can give you names.”

She meant it. That was what got under Mara’s skin. It wasn’t a tactic. Wren Calder would walk out to her truck, drive away, and never think about Alder House again, and the sideboard would get its pretty new veneer from someone with a nicer bedside manner, and Mara would have won.

She opened her mouth to say fine. Names, then.

“Oh my God,” said a delighted voice from the doorway, “you two have known each other for an hour and a half.”

Celia came in carrying three mugs of coffee in a triangle between her hands, a notebook wedged under her arm, curls escaping a clip that had clearly given up around seven a.m. She was wearing the mustard-yellow cardigan Mara privately thought made her look like a very happy bumblebee, and she was laughing — at both of them, the full-body Celia laugh that started somewhere around her knees.

“I heard hire someone who lies to you from the kitchen,” she said. “I almost dropped these. Hi. I’m Celia. I’m the other one.”

“Wren.” Wren took the mug she was offered and, for the first time all morning, smiled for real. It took the cool off her face and put something warm and slightly crooked in its place. “You’re the one who found the sideboard.”

“I’m the one who cried over the sideboard. Mara’s the one who did the math.” Celia handed Mara her mug and bumped her hip, a married-people gesture that meant be nice. “Let me guess. She wants to veneer it.”

“She wants to veneer it.”

“And you want to leave the scar.”

“I want to leave the scar.”

Celia looked at Mara with enormous innocent eyes. “Babe. She’s right.”

“She’s on the payroll for three weeks and she’s been here ninety minutes.”

“And she’s right.” Celia turned back to Wren and leaned a hip against the sideboard, close, the way she leaned toward anything she found interesting. “So what would you do with it? Walk me through it. Slowly. I want the whole fantasy.”

Mara knew that tone. She’d been on the receiving end of that tone at a community-theater strike party twelve years ago, holding a drill she didn’t need, while a stranger in a sequined thrift-store blazer asked her very slowly what she was building.

Wren seemed to know it too. She gave Celia a look that was half amused and half something less safe, and then she walked her through it — the cleaning, the consolidant, the way she’d feather the finish so the scar read like a deep tone in the wood instead of a wound — and Celia listened with her chin propped on her hand and her eyes on Wren’s fingers as they moved over the walnut.

“So it doesn’t disappear,” Celia said. “It just stops being an emergency.”

“That’s most of my job,” Wren said.

Mara drank her coffee. It was too hot. She drank it anyway.

“Fine,” she said. “Leave the scar.”

Both of them looked at her.

“If guests hate it, I’m putting a table runner on it and blaming you.”

“Deal,” said Wren.

“She’s so romantic,” Celia said. “Come see the east wing. That’s the part I really want to show you. It’s going to be a workshop. A teaching studio, eventually, if we can make it work. Classes, local makers, a place for people to actually build something while they’re here instead of just buying candles in the gift shop.”

“It’s phase two,” Mara said.

“It’s the soul of the place,” Celia said.

“It’s phase two with a soul.”

The east wing smelled like closed rooms and cold plaster. It was a long, low addition from the 1920s, two connected rooms and a back service corridor, with tall windows facing the lake and oak paneling to chest height along every wall. In the afternoon the light came in gold and generous. In the morning it was gray and honest, and it showed every water stain on the ceiling Mara had already priced to paint over.

Celia spun in the middle of the larger room with her arms out. “Workbenches here. Tool wall there. Big doors where that window is so you can bring lumber in straight from the yard. Can’t you see it?”

Wren wasn’t looking at the room. She was looking at the wall.

She walked the length of the paneling slowly, knuckles rapping every two feet. Solid. Solid. Solid. Halfway down the north wall, the sound changed — duller, softer, like knocking on a wet loaf of bread. She stopped. Moved six inches and rapped again.

“What,” Mara said.

Wren didn’t answer. She took a flat bar out of her back pocket, glanced at Mara for exactly one second — permission, or the courtesy of pretending to ask — and slid the edge into the seam between two boards. One careful pull. The panel came away with a sound like a sigh.

The smell hit Mara first. Wet. Sweetish. Rot.

Behind the board the stud was black and furred and glistening faintly. Wren pressed her thumb into it and it gave like cake. A small trickle of dark water ran down the back of the plaster and disappeared toward the floor.

Out on the lake a gull complained.

“You’ve got water,” Wren said quietly. “Coming from somewhere above or behind. Probably been coming for years.” She pressed lower on the stud. It gave again. “I don’t know how far.”

Mara’s stomach dropped like a cut elevator cable.

She heard her own voice say, very calmly, “Our contractor walked this wing in June. He signed off.”

“Your contractor looked at it,” Wren said. “That’s different.”

“He’s licensed.”

“I’m sure he is. Did he take anything off the wall?”

Mara didn’t answer, because the answer was no, and because she already knew what came next. Water behind paneling meant water in the sill. Water in the sill meant sill beams, and sill beams meant jacks and shoring and a structural engineer, and every one of those words had a dollar sign stapled to it, and she could already feel it crawling up the back of her neck the way it had when she was ten years old and found the shutoff notice in the kitchen drawer under the takeout menus.

If you see it first, nobody suffers.

“Okay,” Mara said. She clicked her pen. “Okay. That’s not your scope. I’ll have Tomas out this week. Put the board back.”

“Mara,” Celia said softly.

“It’s fine. It’s a phase-two problem. It’s literally the phase-two room.” She made a note she didn’t need to make. Her handwriting was perfectly steady. “Thank you for finding it.”

Wren set the panel back in place with surprising gentleness, as if she were tucking something in. When she straightened she was looking at Mara with an expression Mara didn’t like, because it wasn’t judgment. It was recognition.

“I’ll put it in the assessment,” Wren said. “In writing. So nobody has to remember it.”

“Fine.”

“I start Monday. I’ll need a key to this wing. I work late.”

“Fine.”

“And I bill weekly.”

“Fine.“

Wren picked up her tool roll. At the door she turned back, not to Mara, but to Celia, who was still standing in the center of the room with her arms folded now instead of flung open.

“It’s a good room,” Wren said. “For a workshop. The light’s right. The bones are right.” She nodded at the wall. “It’ll just cost you more to get there.”

Then she was gone, boots on the old floorboards, the front door opening and closing, and a minute later the green truck crunching back down the drive.

“She’s going to be trouble,” Celia said finally.

Mara looked at her. Celia was still staring at the doorway with an expression Mara had not seen on her wife’s face in a long, long time.

“Yes,” Mara said. “She is.”

The carriage house sat across the gravel yard from the inn, a two-story clapboard box with a slate roof and a door that stuck in wet weather. It was where they’d lived for the fourteen months of renovation, and before that it had been a place to store hay, and somewhere in the walls Mara was fairly sure it still remembered being a barn.

She checked the latch on the kitchen door at ten-forty. Then again at ten-forty-one, because the first time she’d been thinking about sill beams and hadn’t actually felt it catch.

Upstairs, Celia was in bed with her notebook open on her knees, a pen in her mouth, not writing anything.

Mara brushed her teeth, took her hair down, pulled on the soft gray T-shirt she slept in, and got into bed on her side. Twelve years. Nine of them married. She knew the exact weight of the mattress dipping under Celia’s hip, the noise Celia made when she was about to say something she’d been rehearsing.

Celia took the pen out of her mouth.

“Her hands,” she said.

Mara closed her eyes. “Don’t.”

“I’m not doing anything. I’m making an observation.” Celia closed the notebook and set it on the nightstand and rolled onto her side to face her. “Her hands. When she put them on the sideboard. You saw them too.”

“I saw a contractor touching a piece of furniture.”

“She’s not a contractor, she’s a conservator, and you watched her the whole time. I watched you watching her.” Celia’s voice dropped, warm and teasing and dangerous. “You were so annoyed.”

“She was difficult.”

“She was right.”

“Those are not mutually exclusive.”

Celia laughed and slid closer, her bare knee nudging Mara’s under the sheets. “You know what I kept thinking? When she was doing that thing where she pressed her whole palm to it and just — listened? I kept thinking, she does that to people. She has to. Nobody touches wood like that without touching women like that.”

“Celia.”

“What?”

“We have a rule.”

“We have a pact,” Celia corrected, delighted. “Provincetown. Year two. That terrible porch with the citronella candles. We were very drunk and very sincere.” She held up one finger. “Never a guest.” Two fingers. “And never without telling each other first.”

“She’s on the property every day for three weeks.”

“She’s not a guest. She’s a vendor.”

“That is not a loophole.”

“I’m not looking for a loophole. I’m telling you first.” Celia’s finger traced the line of Mara’s collarbone through her shirt. “See? Pact honored. I think the furniture woman is extremely hot, and I’m telling my wife, in our bed, before anything has happened. That’s practically a sacrament.”

Mara opened her eyes.

Celia’s face was close, flushed along the cheekbones, curls spilling over the pillow. She looked happy in a way that had nothing to do with the inn or the opening or the eleven thousand spreadsheet tabs Mara kept between them like sandbags. She looked like the woman in the sequined blazer.

Something hot and uncomfortable went through Mara’s chest. She didn’t name it. She rolled over instead and pinned her wife to the mattress.

Celia gasped, then laughed, then stopped, because Mara had both her wrists in one hand above her head and her mouth on the side of her throat.

“Oh,” Celia breathed. “Okay. Hi.“

“You want to talk about her,” Mara said against her skin, “talk.”

“Are you — is that —”

“Talk, Celia.”

She felt Celia’s pulse jump under her lips. Then her wife’s whole body arched up into her, and Celia said, a little breathless, “Okay. She’d — she wouldn’t kiss me first. She’d make me wait. She’d look at me the way she looked at that wall, like she already knew where I was soft.”

Mara pushed the T-shirt Celia slept in up over her breasts and took a nipple in her mouth, rolling it hard against her tongue, and Celia’s sentence broke in half.

“Fuck — yes — like that, and she’d — she’d use her hands. Those hands. She’d put one flat on my stomach and hold me still. The way she held the sideboard.”

Mara let go of her wrists, spread her own palm wide over Celia’s belly, and pressed her down into the bed.

Celia moaned, low and helpless, a sound Mara had heard a thousand times and hadn’t heard quite like that in longer than she wanted to calculate.

“Keep going,” Mara said.

“She’d be bossy. Not like you. You’re bossy like a — a spreadsheet.” Celia giggled, gasped, giggled again as Mara bit the underside of her breast in retaliation. “Ow. God. She’d be bossy like she didn’t care if I liked it. Like she knew I would.”

Mara moved down her body without hurrying. She dragged Celia’s sleep shorts down her hips and off one ankle and left them hanging from the other. She kissed the inside of one knee, then higher, the skin there impossibly soft and already damp at the crease. Celia smelled like her lavender soap and like herself, sharp and sweet and familiar, and she was so wet already that her thighs shone in the lamplight.

“She’d make me tell her what I wanted,” Celia whispered.

“Tell me, then.”

“Your mouth.”

“Whose mouth?”

A long, shaking breath. “I — yours. Hers. God, Mara. Anybody’s. Please.”

Mara put her mouth on her.

She licked one slow stroke from Celia’s entrance to her clit, tasting the salt-sweet slick of her, and Celia’s heels dug into the mattress. Mara knew this body the way she knew the inn’s floor plan — every load-bearing wall, every place that creaked. She knew Celia liked it broad and slow first, then focused, then relentless.

She did it the way she always did, and it was good, and it was also different, because Celia was talking.

“She’d hold my thighs open,” Celia panted, and Mara did, hands spreading her wide, thumbs pressing into the soft inner muscle. “With her — with those rough hands, I’d feel every callus, I’d — ah — I’d feel that scar on her thumb right there —”

Mara’s thumb slid in along the slick seam beside her tongue. Celia cried out.

“— and she’d talk,” Celia went on, half sobbing now, “she’d say things, filthy things, she’d tell me how wet I was like it was a — a professional observation —”

“You’re soaked,” Mara said against her, and her own voice came out lower and rougher than she’d intended. “You’re dripping on the sheets.”

“Yes, like that, God, say more —”

Mara didn’t say more. She pushed two fingers inside her wife instead, slow, all the way, curling them up against the ridged spot she’d been finding for twelve years, and closed her lips around Celia’s clit and sucked.

Celia came apart.

Her back bowed clean off the bed, her hands knotted in Mara’s hair hard enough to sting. She made a high, cracked sound and her cunt clenched around Mara’s fingers in long rolling pulses, and Mara held her through it, held her down with that palm on her belly, tongue gentling on her clit until the shaking slowed.

She didn’t stop.

She eased her fingers in and out, slow and deep, and kept her mouth there, waiting. Celia always had a second one in her if you were patient enough not to ask for it.

“Mara,” Celia gasped. “Mara, wait, I —”

“You don’t want me to wait.”

“No,” Celia admitted, wrecked. “Don’t stop. Oh, God. She’d — she’d make me come again. She wouldn’t even ask.”

“I’m not asking,” Mara said, and added a third finger.

Celia sobbed out a laugh and spread her legs wider and let her.

The second one built slower and hit harder. Mara fucked her deep and rhythmic, tongue flickering fast over her clit, and somewhere in the middle of it she realized she was rocking her own hips against the mattress. Small, involuntary, pressing down for friction. Under her sleep shorts she was soaked through, slick on her thighs, aching in a hollow insistent way that had nothing to do with the rhythm she’d built in her marriage and everything to do with the picture that kept flashing behind her eyes —

Scarred knuckles on dark walnut. A palm laid flat. Gray eyes looking at a wall like they could see straight through it.

Then hire someone who lies to you.

Celia came the second time with Mara’s name on her lips, and then, very softly, at the very end, a second syllable that wasn’t Mara’s name at all — just a breath, just the start of a W that dissolved into a moan before it became anything.

Mara heard it.

She didn’t stop. She brought Celia down slow and careful, kissing the inside of her thigh, easing her fingers free, pressing her cheek for a moment to the soft warm skin of her hip.

Then she crawled back up the bed and lay beside her.

Celia was boneless, eyes closed, curls stuck to her forehead, chest still heaving.

“Holy shit,” she said to the ceiling.

“Mm.”

“Holy shit, Mara.”

“I know.”

“You haven’t done that — not like that — I don’t know how long.” Celia turned her head on the pillow. Her eyes were wet and bright and very, very curious. “Was that for me? Or was that something else?”

“Go to sleep.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s a suggestion.” Mara reached over and turned off the lamp.

In the dark, Celia found her hand and laced their fingers together. After a while she reached across with her other hand, slid it down Mara’s stomach, and paused at the waistband of her sleep shorts. Mara caught her wrist.

“Tomorrow,” Mara said.

“You’re soaked. I can feel it.”

“Tomorrow.”

Celia made a soft disbelieving sound, but she let it go. She curled into Mara’s side and within ten minutes her breathing went slow and even.

Mara lay on her back with her wife’s hand in hers, her own body still pulsing, swollen and untouched, refusing to examine why.

Through the window she could see the dark shape of the inn across the yard and, at its far end, the black line of the east wing. Somewhere inside that wall water was still running down the back of the plaster, the way it had been for years while everyone painted over the stains. She thought about sill beams and numbers. She thought about the board coming away from the wall with that soft wet sigh.

And she thought — she couldn’t stop thinking — about the woman who had stood in her lobby, in front of the most beautiful thing she owned, and refused to lie to her about a sideboard.

Want to keep reading? The full novel is available now.

Buy The Third Key

Get the Audiobook

🔥 Want an EXCLUSIVE Bonus Chapter?

Criteria — A scene TOO HOT for the bookstore

The night they get the keys to the farmhouse on the east shore. No furniture yet. Twenty-two candles, two moving blankets, and Mara makes a list of exactly what she wants. Out loud. In order. No skipping ahead.

Get the Bonus Chapter →