Smoky eyes behind frameless glasses looked at me, and she burst into tears.My pain and discomfort were forgotten.“Don’t cry. Please don’t cry,�... I begged. Amelia looked awful; hair, usually so soft and feathery, was limp. She was so pale.Lifting her glasses, she wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, gave me a half-hearted smile, and reached for my hand. Her touch was delicate and her hand ice cold.Peter looked at me from behind her.“What did you do to her?” I asked in a whisper.Then all the. Right now, she was dressed like a rape victim.She was wearing what she believed was the single greatest piece of clothing ever made for the female form. A black cocktail dress. Thin, elegant shoulder straps, a custom made shape to cling to her body tightly and let everyone around her know she had the perfect body. The dress ended halfway up her thighs, revealing her long, black stocking covered legs. And a pair of matching black high heel boots.A somewhat obvious look, yes, but one that. More

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