“Not breaking his hand for touching you was really hard, kukolka.” His voice was low and deep, sinister in the way he said the words. “Yes, that’s what you are, isn’t it?” It sounded like he spoke to himself, murmuring the words low and deep and so very heady. “My little doll.” He looked at my mouth again. “Krasavitsa,” he murmured. “Beauty.”
