“his father said, wheezing a bit around the oxygen tank seated by his wheelchair. Munir bowed his head, and he hated himself for doing that. His father was no longer the towering giant of his childhood, no longer the overbearing dictator with the whip in his hand to discipline his errant son. No pain would come to him here. Hell, the man was dying and, within the year, his heart would give out. The best doctors in London had told them all that. Still, this was his father, and no matter how h...ard he tried to break against the mold, no matter how hard he wished things weren’t true, he wanted to please him still. That sad part of him was still eleven and felt he’d never be the powerful successor his dad railed about day after day. Hell, the part of him that just a few months ago had hoped his father would smile back at him during Munir’s own coronation, but only found grim resignation instead. So Munir kept his head bowed and his tone contrite.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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