That's when he materializes like smoke, his heat wrapping around me, his breath carrying promises in Russian against my skin. Every evening, I swear I'll resist, demand answers, force him to see me as more than a delicate thing to be protected.
And every evening, I fail.
Sex is our only common language now, the sole bridge between his world of violence and my world of waiting. I'm terrified that if we lose this connection, this raw physical need that draws him to my bed no matter how many bodies he had to step over that day, we'll drift so far apart we'll never find our way back to each other.
"Don't fret, m'dear," Mrs. Morris says, her Scottish lilt cutting through my brooding. "The rain will clear eventually. It always does."
I turn from the window, forcing a smile. "You said that se
