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    You Do NOT Get to Say Her Name

    Seated around the large dining room table, Kennedy was overcome by the reaction of her fellow potentials to her homecoming. She knew full well that many of them regarded her with nonchalance at best, many disliked her intensely and only one or two had offered her the hand of friendship.

    Since her run in with the Bringers, each potential had, at some point during her stay in hospital, been by to visit, many bringing her fruit or candy in an attempt to cheer her up.

    From what she managed to gather, only Amanda had the vaguest clue as to her true injury, not the physical healing of her chest and its contained organs, but the shattered tatters of her heart.

    Willow stood in the kitchen doorway, watching as the potentials fussed over Kennedy and offered to fetch her things ranging from food and drinks, to videos, popcorn and anything else she felt the need for. Behind her, Tara prowled around the kitchen; fighting the urge to take the plates she was returning to their cupboards and smash them over the injured potentials head.

    Her return, although wordless, had told Tara everything she had needed to know. The desire and yearning in the brief look she had settled on Willow had said quite clearly that she had no intention of giving up the fight for the redhead. Her stay in the hospital, her injuries and Willows rejection of her affections had apparently done nothing to quell the selfish need within her. Part of Tara couldn’t blame her for that. She had felt the need for Willows touch, the call of her lips and the overwhelming desire to be claimed as Willows own. The other, more predatory part, wanted to protect Willow, protect the love and devotion they had promised to each other for eternity, if that meant putting Kennedy permanently out of the picture, well that was just a bonus.

    “Tara?!” Willows voice pulled her from her thoughts and she looked up at the woman stood before her.

    “What?” her eyes were clouded as though she had just woken up.

    “What?” Willow echoed disbelievingly. “What?”

    Tara looked down to the plate she had been holding, so lost was she in her mental defence that her grip on the plate had tightened and smashed the delicate china, a shard of the flowered crockery sticking deeply into her arm.

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