“That’s where your fantasy for spanking stems from, isn’t it?”
“—and too many potatoes for dinner.”
“What happened to your parents?”
“My father was a miner. He died underground.”
“I’m sorry.”
I just hum. “My mother died in a train crash. Her train collided with a freight train. The fire spread to the passenger cars. It was… not a pleasant death.”
She scoots closer, impossibly close considering the already tight confines of her current location.
I smile blankly at the wall, touched by her need to comfort me.
“They were nice?”
“Yes.”
“How nice?”
“Very. I was… loved. It made things difficult.”
Her hand settles on top of my heart. She doesn’t recall it’s right above where she cut me yesterday. The slight pressure doesn’t hurt, but it grounds me.
“And you remember your grandmother’s cooking?”
“I do. It would be a small cookbook. Mostly potato based.” At her snicker, I ask, “And how would you spend your days?”
“Knitting.”
“Ah, of course. Knitting.”
“We could have chickens.”
“We could.”
“And a cow. You’d have to kill it though.”
My lips quirk. “I think I could cope.”
“We couldn’t name it.”
“No. If you name them, you grow close to them.”
“Right. Sounds… nice.”
“Peaceful. But you will not need Montenegro,kotik.”
“A part of me wishes I did.”
“You’re scared?”
“Of their power, yes.”
I think about what Harrington shared today and I can’t deny that she’s right to be worried.Worse still—that they attacked him and he had no idea why he was being punished.
Disloyal sons of bitches.
