A shiver wracked her, and the pressure in my throat expanded, compelling me to skim a kiss across her cold thigh and roughly say, “Izvini.” I’m sorry. I remembered the last time I’d said that. I was six and accidentally knocked over a cup of tea on the table, which washed away the line of heroin my mother was about to snort. She backhanded me so hard I hit my head on the fridge and blacked out. It was then I learned apologies were nothing but useless words, though Mila felt differently. And she could have whatever she wanted from me right now.
