But she flinches back, a sob escaping her lips. She looks so… worn out, almost defeated.
“Is this life better?” I ask.
Her eyes flash. “f**k you.”
I’m angry, too, but my anger is quickly fading as I face those startling hazel eyes of hers.
What does our son looks like? Is he more Moreno or Kovalyov?
I won’t care either way. I’m just curious, desperate for more.
“Esme…” I try again, moving closer.
Another step back and she’s going to hit the wall behind her. There’s nowhere else for her to go. This shoe box of an apartment doesn’t leave her very many opportunities for escape.
She shakes her head. “No, Artem,” she says. “It’s not that easy. What do you want?”
“I want you,” I answer. “I want my son.”
She keeps shaking her head, but she looks as if she’s trying to convince herself of
