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The peas were the size of grapes, and gleamed a vibrant green colour that lit up the dish. The meat, tender, its juices seeping onto the plate with a single touch of my fork. Yet, the breathtaking aroma only served to make my stomach turn harder.
Which was disheartening because if I had been served like this back home, my plate would have been cleaned down to the white china.
The tension at the table was like an arrow bow pulled taut. I ingested little pieces at a time so I would not puke.
No one spoke, knives and forks clanking. The silence unnerving, amplifying every sound.
Olya did not look at me, yet I felt her scrutiny still. And it was far worse.
Vladimir remained as imposing seated as he was standing.
His cold voice ordering me to repeat the walk on the parapet again and again. In the chill of the night, all I had felt was his presenceāunyielding, inescapable, a weight that pressed down on my lungs even when he stood twenty feet below.
