The woman seems to urge him forward. To feed. And he seems to consider it. Lips dry and cracked, chest heaving.
But then he curls into a ball and begins to cry. I do not need to hear him to know he is crying for me.
My eyes sting. "Let me inside."
"That, would be a very terrible idea," Zaystev answers. "It is nearly time for his treatment with the King, which makes him quite thirsty--"
"Let me in," I say. "Ren would never hurt me. I am his mother."
Zaystev shakes his head. "He is not himself--"
"Let. Me. Inside. Now."
He murmurs something russian under his breath, before moving forward, boots leaving a trail of dust on the pristine white marble.
The steel door parts and his voice echoed through the space. "Anya, out."
