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Pasha cleared his throat. The sound carried through the room. Then his gaze dropped to the second shelf. To our dolls. The ballerina. The pianist. The artist. The cellist. My sweet season sisters.

A muscle in his jaw flexed. For a moment, I thought he might smash the cabinet himself. He wiped his palm against his jeans before reaching inside again. The first doll he retrieved was Mischa.

Sonny had ensured she was smaller than the others. As authentic as possible was his goal. The thought of it made my stomach churn.

“Mouse,” he whispered.

The word broke apart somewhere in the middle, filled with grief. I knew that sound far too well. A visible shudder rolled through him as he came face to face with the evidence of all our pain and suffering. Nightmares were real.

His eyes found mine, and neither of us spoke. Maybe because we didn’t need to, or maybe the look that passed between us said it all. It was my turn to draw in deep breaths to calm him. Once I was sure he was good, I nodded.

One by one, he gathered the remaining dolls, handling them with a level of care they made me love him even more. He understood that they were fragile. He understood they represented little girls who had survived the impossible. By the time he finished, all eight rested in his arms.

Eight lives. Eight horrific stories. Eight echoes of the past.

I drew a steadying breath and nodded toward the door. “Take them to the car and wait for me. I will be ten minutes at most.”

I turned my attention from him to the dolls scattered around the room. Their lifeless eyes seemed to watch my every move with silent accusation—taunting me. Moving with a purpose I didn’t quite understand, I set the poker down. I picked up the first doll and felt a surge of defiance, like I’d never experienced.

With a cry of rage and brokenness, I threw it down on the ground as hard as I could. It shattered instantly, and years of pent-up anguish were unleashed. I tore at their delicate clothing with a ferocity that scared me, smashing them against walls, hurling others to the floor and stomping them into oblivion beneath my boots.

The room echoed with the sounds of destruction. The harsh clatter of porcelain and the cries that tore from my throat were the only sounds for miles. Tears continued to stream down my cheeks. I unleashed my fury on the inanimate objects that had been a symbol of so much pain and suffering.

Once the room lay in ruins around me, I collapsed onto the floor. I winced as another shard of porcelain bit into the back of my thigh. Blood dotted my skin, staining the cuffs of my sleeves and smearing across my palms.

I didn’t care. All the feelings of helplessness were gone. The dolls were gone. Sonny’s shrine was gone. A shaky laugh escaped me, followed by several more. My shoulders shook. At first, it was simple laughter, and then it wasn’t. Finally, it subsided.

The room looked like a battlefield. I lowered my gaze to my hands. Tiny cuts criss-crossed my fingers. The blood looked odd, and the room shifted. I blinked to clear it, and my eyes caught on a flash of bright red hair.

The doll had somehow managed to keep its head intact. It wasn’t Winter but her hair was the same shade.

The present blurred around the edges as I slipped farther. Seconds stretched. Or maybe minutes. I couldn’t tell any more. The destruction surrounding me faded into the background as memories rose one after another, each demanding to be seen.

I could almost see the little girl I’d once been standing quietly off to the side of Sonny’s workbench. I could almost hear him humming as he dipped the brush into the black paint.

A rustle sounded. Then a low growl. My stomach dropped. Winter.

She was pressed against the far side of the kennel, her small body flattened so tightly against the wire that it looked painful. Her bright red hair had escaped its braid, strands clinging to her damp cheeks.

The dogs moved in restless circles inside the kennel, nails clicking loudly, their massive bodies cutting through my vision in broad, black shapes. Every pass brought them closer to Winter, then away again, only to return a second later with renewed interest.

Outside, wind scraped dead branches against the windows, carrying brittle leaves across the glass in brief, frantic bursts. Most of the trees had already surrendered to my season. Their bare limbs clawed at the gray afternoon sky beyond Sonny’s room.

It was always more suffocating with him here. Thanksgiving, I thought dimly. Or close to it. We didn’t celebrate that back home. It was confirmation that we were in the United States. But with him being here, that meant a holiday was coming.

A fire burned in the corner hearth, turning the room too warm despite the cold pressing against the windows. The heat mingled with the smell of wood, oil paint, pee, and wet dog fur until every breath felt thick.

Shadows shifted along the wallpaper each time the flames snapped, stretching the bars of the kennel across the floor in long, distorted lines. The huge black dogs watched Winter with dark, hungry eyes.

One lowered its head, lips peeling back just enough to show the flash of teeth before a deep warning growl rolled through the room. Winter flinched so violently I almost dropped my paintbrush.

“Hold still,” Sonny chided in Italian.

The words floated across the room with a strange sort of patience, as though Winter was being difficult on purpose instead of fighting to keep herself from coming apart. The command had an immediate effect.

Winter’s back pressed harder against the kennel wall. Her fingers twisted into the fabric pooled around her knees until her knuckles turned white. I watched her chest rise and fall in quick, uneven bursts as she tried to obey.

Tried was the key word. One of the Cane Corsos shifted. The movement drew my attention immediately. Its broad head tracked Winter’s every breath, dark eyes fixed on her with an intensity that made my stomach knot. The dog took two deliberate steps forward, and Winter’s entire body reacted.