Her Neglected Scars
“You’re my fucking wife. Let her look.”
The shadow at the mouth of the cave shifts, and there she stands.
Irina.
Her perfect, manicured hands are clenched into tight fists at her sides, her pristine winter clothes a stark contrast to the mud and filth coating the cave floor.
For a split second, her face turns completely sour, the sweet, angelic facade dropping to reveal a flash of pure, venomous hatred.
Then, just as quickly, she blinks, and the mask slips right back into place, her eyes brimming with careful concern.
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