"I know about the baby," I say, and she freezes. "I know you're pregnant. And I know you were going to?—"
"You don't know anything." Her voice is shaking. "You don't know anything about me or what I'm going through or what I need."
"I know you can't do this alone."
Her face hardens, twisting into an angry sneer. "Watch me."
She tries to pull away again, and I tighten my grip. "I can give you everything," I say desperately. "A home. Security. Medicalcare. You won't have to worry about money or where you're going to sleep or?—"
"I don't want your help!" Tears well up in her eyes. "I don't want anything from you!"
"You need it. Whether you want it or not, you need it."
I let go of her, putting the car back into drive. “We’re going back to my place. We’ll talk there. But I can’t let things keep going on the way they are.”
“Why?” she nearly hisses, and I let out a sharp breath.
"I'm not going to hurt you. I promise. I just—I couldn't let you go in there."
She lets out a sharp, bitter-sounding laugh. "You have no right?—"
"I have every right." The words come out harsher than I intended. "You're carrying my child."
She goes still. I can see her staring at me in the rear-view mirror like I've lost my mind.
I’m starting to think that maybe I have.
"You don't know that," she whispers. Her face has gone even whiter than before.
"I know what happened at the safe house."
"You're insane."
I don’t say anything to that. I just keep driving, as she makes a sound that's half sob, half scream, and slumps back against the seat. Her hands are shaking. Her whole body is shaking.
I hate that I'm doing this to her, that I'm the one putting that fear in her eyes.
But I have to protect her, and this is the only way.
—
By the timewe reach my apartment, Svetlana is sitting pressed against the door, as far from me as she can get, her arms wrapped around herself. She's not crying now, just staring out the window with a blank expression that's somehow worse than the tears.
I pull into the closest parking spot to my apartment and turn to face her again. "You can't take care of a baby in that motel room." I do my best to keep my voice gentle. "You can barely take care of yourself."
“That’s why I wasn’t going to keep it.” She speaks through gritted teeth, her jaw clenched.
"I can give you everything you need. A safe place to live. Food. Medical care. You won't have to worry about money or?—"
"I don't want your help." Her voice is flat, emotionless.
"You need it."
"I need you to let me go."
"I can't do that."
She finally looks at me, and the hatred in her eyes is like a physical blow. "You're just like them. Just like all of them."
