The Prey

She was beautiful.

Krystina Romanovski was just like her mother, Rara Romanovski. And I didn’t know what to do, except for fidgeting and sneaking glances at her.

Even the flowers seemed dull. Really, I was not exaggerating.

And somehow, I was sipping on the tea hoping she wouldn’t notice or I didn’t want to look like a creep.

Rara was speaking, mostly asking me about my childhood. But my attention was drawn elsewhere—to Krystina.

She sat quietly, her hands folded neatly in her lap, her gaze flitting between her mother and the tea in front of her. She was wearing a soft lavender dress with long sleeves and...