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My finger inches down the side of her face, her neck, sliding along her smooth bare skin and to her shoulder, stopping at the strap of her dress.
I shift my eyes to meet her gaze again.
Hers is blazing. But not with fear, realization—she got caught, she knows that, and I’m the worst person to know her secret. Also, the best one to keep it. For a price, of course. It will come with heavy consequences. Doom is inevitable. I’ve felt it for months. But if I’m going down, I’m taking everything I can from life. She’ll be my last meal.
I let a smile out to play when I say intentionally calm and soft, almost in a whisper, sensing her tension, “Do you want to tell me how you know Russian?” Then calmly add, “Maddy?”
Letting her secret out spikes the anticipation that makes every cell in my body come alive—she’ll be mine.
“Or should I call you Milena Tsariuk?”
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