Anatoly Moskvin Dolls Novels & Stories

The important thing is that it was possible to hide the damage, and it wasn't even that much. “Oliver once built a robot at the metallurgy to be his girlfriend, she was called Emanuelle because of those p**n movies she had at the time...” Mr. Anton says and I start laughing, my father does the same and Oliver looks embarrassed. “I was years old! I had a lot of hormones!” He tries to justify himself. “I nicknamed the doll Emanuelle Brass... he gave the doll some big tits...” Mr. Anton says laughing too and a while later even Oliver is laughing.

My barely-there black sequin dress caught the light of the disco ball. My makeup was sharp and aggressive: blood-red lips and smoky, winged eyeliner that formed a seductive cat-eye. I imagined Rocco's frown, the disgusted look in his eyes he'd give me before telling me to go back and change. But this was the real me, Rosalie Thorne, the Thorn Principessa, who never had to dull her edges for anyone. Just like now. Julian had booked us the prime circular booth in the center of the club. Across from me, a male model, barely twenty, was blushing as he stared at my collarbone.

Anya did not know what to say to that, so she just hummed one of Morozko’s winter lullabies to herself and absorbed the scenic view. They made their way to the vendors at the foot of Sparrow Hills. “Look. Wooden nesting dolls! Like the matroyshka I used to have,” Anya said. Morozko nodded, his gaze stolen by something else. “What are you looking at?” Anya asked, distracted. Morozko blushed, taking the object into his hand. “What is it?” Anya pressed against him, struggling to see. It was a tortoiseshell comb with mother-of-pearl inlay in the shape of a fruiting tree.