“You can’t even look at me,” I spit.
At that, she turns on me, angry as hell.
I see the spark in her eyes, that old fire that used to infuriate and attract me in equal measure.
“What do you want from me?” she demands. “I did what I had to do!”
She’s upset and clearly rattled to see me, but I can see the underlying emotion hiding just underneath indignation.
She wants me to understand.
She wants me to absolve her of her guilt.
She glances towards the closed bedroom door before her eyes flicker back to me.
“You could have stayed,” I say quietly.
“You told me we could be a family,” she throws back at me. “You promised me a different life. You told me you would leave the Bratva behind.”
“Esme—”
I move forward, my hand reaching out to her.
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. “Fuck 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.
Of him.
Of her.
Of us.
“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 something.
I can see the need in her eyes. She’s missed me.
“Did you really think I’d just let you go?” I ask quietly.
“I thought you did,” she says, and her voice hikes up with emotion.
Hurt. That’s what I’m hearing.