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Anna tried her best to stuff the feelings of resentment back down into her chest. She was perfectly threatening, the man just happened to exude it a little better than she did.
She could smell every bit of sugar and syrup, could picture the flaky phyllo dough and bits of pistachio or almond. “Where to start?” Anna murmured, mostly to herself. “There’s harissa and sticky fingers, baklava too.
“No, I have no quarrels with living. I simply prefer actually doing so over the illusion of it.” He didn’t reply.
“The mother of my wee ones is going to help me raise them, no’ do it by herself, and bloody hell, she won’t be doing it away from me where I can no’ protect them. I figure I’d at least have to like her, aye? Means I have to wait for someone I like more than a passing tumble.”
“But I am expected to be who they are and to want what they have. And I don’t. I want none of it. Not unless it is authentic and fought for and lived in. I want a life and a love loud enough to rattle the stars.”
