POV: Siena Blake

“Mama, please,” Roman whispered softly, tugging on the hem of my blouse with both of his small hands like his grip alone could change my mind if he held on tightly enough.

I looked down at him where he sat cross-legged on the thick living room rug, his sketchpad sprawled open beside him with bright crayon lines zigzagging across the page. The blue crayon was still in his hand, his fingers smudged with bits of color. His curls were wild and slightly messy from an entire afternoon spent drawing pictures of dragons breathing fire and tall buildings with tiny people inside them. At some point, he had...