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“My father will find me,” I whisper. “And when he does, he will burn you out of your own bones.”
Cristóbal laughs.
“Oh, your poor Papi. You vanished, remember? And no one knows who took you.”
He steps closer and leans down again.
“But just in case you’re still clinging to hope… You have less than six hours.”
I stare up at him, barely blinking.
“Six hours to agree to marry me,” he says. “Or I do away with your.”
He pauses, smirking again.
“And your little bastard, too.”
Then he turns and walks out, leaving the door wide open behind him for two guards to step in. I lie still for a moment with my face burning and my ribs aching. But my fury pulses harder than the pain. However, I am now sensible enough to keep my anger tucked away because of my son.
Two hours have passed since Cristóbal slapped me hard enough to make the walls tilt. The ache in my cheek is still there, hot and throbbing. But it’s not pain I feel most—it’s the restraint.
When the door clicks open again, I don’t flinch. I just turn slowly.
Cristóbal re-enters, as casually as he did earlier. Like he didn’t just threaten my son’s life. Like he didn’t strike me across the room like I was worthless.
He smiles at me like a wolf. “I trust you’ve had time to think,mi rosa,” he says smoothly. “Are we to be newlyweds by this evening?”
I lift my chin. My voice is steady, but there’s sand in it. “I need to see my son.”
Cristóbal’s smile drops an inch. He studies me.
“Before I decide,” I continue, “I need to know he’s okay.”
He is silent for a second, then he pulls out his phone and presses a single button. “Bring the bastard to his mother.”
This word ‘Bastard’ is like bile in my throat every time he says it. The minutes that pass are torturous. Every sound from beyond the door makes my stomach twist. Then the door opens again. And my heart splits in two.
Maksim is barefoot. His little clothes are wrinkled and damp at the waist. His curls are matted to one side. There’s a bruise on his temple. And when he sees me, his whole face cracks open.
“¡Mami!”
He runs.
I drop to my knees and open my arms as wide as they’ll go.
He crashes into me with a force I didn’t know he had, burying his face in my neck, sobbing so hard I can barely hold him up. I press my face into his hair and breathe him in.
He’s here. He’s whole. He’s mine.
“Mami, mami,” he cries in a choked whisper. “The bad man hit me. I only asked for juice. And I also said please.”
My throat tightens like a noose. I don’t dare look up.
“They hit me again last night,” he says through tears. “Because I peed in my pants. I tried to tell them it was accident.”
I bite the inside of my cheek hard enough to draw blood. My baby’s been potty-trained since he was one and a half years old. However, fear can rewire everything, and stress can undo months of progress.
“Shh,” I whisper, rocking him. “You didn’t do anything wrong,amorcito.You’re so good. So brave.”