The scrape of my fork and conflicted thoughts kept me company at dinner. I wondered if I was just as bad a person as my papa for having turned a blind eye to the truth and for protecting him even now by not being able to bear the thought of losing him. I wondered how much family I’d never had a chance to meet. But mostly, I wondered what or who the devil was dining on tonight.

The room sat still and desolate without his presence, and somehow, his absence only intensified the restless feeling he created inside. The memory of his low sound of approval ran down my body, raising goose bumps in its wake. I shoved my plate away in frustration and mentally recited, J’ai le syndrome de Stockholm. Tu as le syndrome de Stockholm. Nous avons le syndrome de Stockholm.

Before the silent maid could take my leftovers away, I grabbed the plate, slipped on my coat and shoes, and headed outside. The sun had set, but bright lights lit the yard and my way to the kennel.

Once again, the guards’ conversations faded as soon as I stepped out the door. Though the aloof dogs suddenly seemed interested in the dumplings on my plate, and they each took one, licking my fingers clean. I saved a pelmeni for the surly one, who sat alone in the corner staring at me. I dropped it beside him, but he didn’t move toward it. The other dogs gave him a wide berth, and I wondered if he was the alpha of the pack or just temperamental.

The sound of steps crunched in the snow behind me. “Stay away from that one,” Albert said. “He is not right in the head.”

The dog was probably the only one who was right in the head in this place.

“What’s his name?” I asked.

“Khaos.”

“Zdravstvuy, Khaos,” I whispered.

I turned to Albert and shoved the empty plate against his stomach. He grunted and grabbed the fine china before it fell.

“Thought you needed something to serve all that betrayal on,” I told him sweetly before heading back to the house.

Nearing the front door, I passed a guard with a cruel edge. He nudged the man beside him with the butt of his rifle and said something that evoked a laugh between them. A week ago, the obvious insult would have felt like a stab to the gut; like they could see straight through me to all the dirty secrets inside. Now, in this fortress of evil, those secrets were the only way I’d endure. Something inside of me didn’t just want to survive, but to thrive.

When I turned to look at them, something in my eyes made their laughter fade. I closed the distance between us, grabbed the unlit cigarette from the cruel-looking man’s lips, and put it between mine. Mechanically, the guard beside him handed me a lighter.

I held down the button to release the butane in my cupped palm, and then I lit the gas with the lighter, so the flame was captured in my hand. It was a simple trick being an only child with a wild spirit taught me as an adolescent, but judging by the wary way the guards watched me light a cigarette from a pyro ball in my hand, I must be a witch.

I always was a Practical Magic fan.

I slipped the smoke back between the slack guard’s lips, and when the cigarette went up in flames, curses erupted, and they both jumped back with a pat or two to their clothes.

Then, I turned to walk away, palm smarting beneath a cold Russian sky, and the first genuine smile touched my lips.

madrugada

(n.) the moment at dawn when the night greets the day

Hands in my pockets, I stood in front of the library window watching light search the horizon. The grandfather clock chimed the eight a.m. hour, signaling I got less than three hours of sleep after returning from Moscow last night. But as soon as the sun rose, so did I.

Old habits die hard.

The quiet winter morning remained still when the first ray of light reached the toes of my boots. Dust particles floated in the thin golden beam. The sight reminded me of sunlight filtering through a grimy apartment window; of frozen breaths from chapped lips, hunger, and fading yellow bruises.

First light in my childhood meant my brother and I had to run the streets and steal pastries from local bakeries. Kristian would scope the restaurant out, and I’d do the dirty work. My mom wasn’t exactly a cook. Or a mother who fed her kids. After she died, we were homeless and better off. To this day, my body still awoke charged every morning, expecting the need to find food. The involuntary response was called trauma, but I thought that sounded a bit dramatic.

When light glimmered on a flaxen head of hair, a lash of heat licked through me, slid down to solidify in my groin, and stretched my body taut. The rising sun created the perfect illusion of a halo on top of Mila’s head before she disappeared behind the trees that outlined my property. For a second, I thought I was so sexually repressed I was imagining her. God only knows how many times I’d thought about fisting a hand in that hair while she sucked me off. I was sure He didn’t approve, but maybe He should lower His expectations so we could all be happy.

The skirt of a sunflower dress slipped into view, and I sure as fuck knew my imagination wouldn’t come up with floral patterns. Apparently, Mila rose just as early—or she was only up in an effort to find an avenue of escape. I was hardly concerned.

Yesterday flooded back: the taste of her mouth and the feel of her body pressed against mine. The only thing that stopped me from fucking her against the shower wall was the intrusive thought I’d tricked her into something her young, volatile hormones couldn’t handle and that her submission wasn’t genuine.

I could be generous when I wanted to be.

Since then, my decision stuck with me like a bad toothache.

There were a million productive things I could be doing right now, but instead, I stood there with the need to see what my pet was up to this early in the morning.

When Mila stepped around a tree and into sight, my eyes narrowed before sliding down her body. She was wet and muddy, the luxury fur coat I bought her hanging off one shoulder. At this point, a thrift store would throw it away. If I wasn’t positive I didn’t have any pigs, I’d assume she’d been rolling around in a hog pen. The most ridiculous part of what I saw didn’t have anything to do with her appearance but what she was doing.

Yulia entered the room, the familiar swish-swash of her dress sounding. Before she could announce breakfast was ready, I gestured for her to come stand beside me and said in Russian, “Explain this to me.” I could see as clearly as Yulia, but I still needed confirmation.

She took a second, tilted her head to view the scene at a different angle, then straightened and crossed her arms. “The girl is climbing a tree with a baby crossbill in her hand. She must be trying to see if it can fly.”

I ran a thumb across my bottom lip, which lifted with dry amusement. I knew Mila wasn’t about to drop the baby bird from a tree branch. Rather, it was too young, fell out of its nest, and she was putting it back.

“Birds have parasites.” Yulia wrinkled her nose. “And she’d better not bring all that mud in the house.”

“Thank you, Yulia. I’ll be in for breakfast shortly.”

She nodded, quietly pleased she could be of service, and left the room.

Soon, Mila had an audience. Pavel stepped into view and appeared ready to catch her if she fell, which was laughable given Mila’s height outmatched his and the fact she’d only take him down with her. It became clear his stronger motivation was to get a glimpse up her dress. I couldn’t blame the kid, but I also experienced an odd desire to punch him in the face.