Rebecca
Mikhail leaves just after lunch, pressing his lips against the twins’ soft heads with a tenderness that makes my skin crawl. Everything he touches becomes tainted, even innocence and if I don’t get them away from him, he’ll ruin them one day like he has done to me. His fingers find my lower back as he turns to go, heavy and possessive, like I’m just another asset in his inventory. I force my face into the blank mask I’ve perfected over these long years. Inside, my heart hammers like it’s trying to escape ahead of me.
“I’ll return before dinner,” he says, his smile thin. The words hang between us. His breath smells of the vodka he was drinking moments ago, expensive and strong.
He pulls Igor aside, muttering in Russian, a language I’ve learned to understand, though I pretend I do
