"What time is it?" he asks.
I grab my cracked phone from my pocket. "A little after nine.”
He grunts, rubs his jaw, and looks at me.
Good god, he makes my knees feel weak. He’s so…masculine.
A silence stretches between us that seems to be electrically charged. In the morning light, without the noise and chaos of last night, we're just two people in a quiet room. His gaze is different this morning—less hostile, more searching. Like he's trying to figure me out the same way I'm trying to figure him out.
I pull at the sleeve of my jacket. "Thank you. For letting me have the bed."
He nods slightly. Then his gaze drifts to the bandage on my cheek and his jaw tightens. I resist the urge to touch it and draw more attention to it. Instead, I take a couple steps backward and perch on the edge of the bed, folding my hands in my lap. My pulse quickens. "Do you think I'll get to meet my father today?"
Zeus winces like I’ve said something painful.
"London." His voice drops and his expression grows more serious. He leans forward, his elbows on his knees, and meets my eyes. "I need to tell you something."
Ice trickles down my spine. “Um…okay.”
He doesn't look away. Doesn't soften it. Doesn't build up to it with qualifiers. He just says, "Your father's dead."
I blink. And blink again. Dead.
Not away on business. Not unreachable. Not refusing to see me.Dead.
And the worst part? I’m not even sure how to feel about it.
"When?" The question comes out in a monotone with no emotion.
"About six months ago."
Six months.
I've been clutching a scrap of paper with three words on it, dreaming about a man who was already gone.
I wait for devastation to hit. For the wave of grief I'm supposed to feel when you learn your parent has died.
It doesn't come. Not quite. I feel…something. I’m just not really sure what.
"How?" My voice is a whisper.
Zeus's jaw works. He doesn't answer right away. “He was shot. But the circumstances…. That's club business.”
I nod. I can't force him to tell me. And I'm not sure I could absorb more right now.
My eyes burn, but stay dry. I've perfected the art of not crying in front of people. Greg's favorite punishment was making me cry—he'd escalate until the tears came, then mock me for being weak. So I learned to lock it down. Deal with my emotions alone, in the dark.
"I'm sorry." Zeus's voice is rough. "I know that's not what you want to hear."
"No." I stare at my hands. "It's not."
I stand and reach for my duffel.
"What are you doing?" His voice sharpens.
“I’m leaving." I hoist the bag onto my shoulder. "You guys have been nice, but I don't have any reason to be here anymore. My father's dead, so I'm not connected to this club. I think I’ve already overstayed?—”
"London."