Anatoly Moskvin Dolls Novels & Stories

Crackers, maybe? Heart pounding, I peeled the velvet back. Underneath: a few chunks of hardtack and half a protein bar. I froze. Stared at the girl on the bed, still playing dead. She was faking. But why? What was she trying to pull? Did Ms. Deinert know? I looked at her perfect, peaceful face—and felt pure horror. She wasn't some helpless victim. She was a monster.

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.