He grins—that full, devastating smile I've managed to coax out of him more and more over the past week—and drops one more kiss on my forehead before stepping out of the shower. I watch him towel off, admiring the way the muscles of his back flex and shift.
He catches me staring in the mirror and raises an eyebrow. "Like what you see?"
"You know I do."
His grin turns cocky. He wraps the towel around his hips and crosses back to me, cupping my face in both hands. "I'll be back by dinner. You good?"
"I'm perfect."
He studies me for a beat—checking, always checking—then nods. "Stay out of trouble."
"No promises."
After he leaves, I take my time getting dressed, savoring the quiet. His room—our room, now—has absorbed my presence over the past week. My toothbrush is next to his by the sink. My clothes are hanging beside his in the closet. My shoes rest with his near the door.
Seven days ago, I arrived here with a duffel bag and a prayer. Now I have a home. Friends. A man who looks at me like I'm the center of his universe.
I'm towel-drying my hair when my phone buzzes on the nightstand. The number that flashes across the cracked screen sends ice through my veins.
Mom.
I stare at it for two full rings. She's supposed to be in a coma. In a hospital bed with tubes and machines. Unless?—
I answer. "Hello?"
"Baby." Her voice is thin but alert. Conscious. Alive. "It's Mama."
"Mom?" I sink onto the edge of the bed. "You're awake? When did you?—"
"Got out a few days ago. Good as new." She coughs—a wet, rattling sound. "Surprised?"
"I—yes. The doctors said you might not—" I press my palm to my forehead. "How are you feeling?"
"I'm fine, baby. I'm home. Everything's fine."
Home. My jaw tightens. "Mom, you shouldn't be at the house with Greg?—"
"Greg's gone."
She says it with a lack of inflection, like someone delivering old news.
"Gone," I repeat. "What do you mean, gone?"
"I mean gone-gone, baby. Poof. Disappeared." She pauses. "Ain't nobody seen him in about a week. His truck's still here. His clothes are still here. But people are saying he ain't ever coming back."
My throat tightens. My brain buzzes. Not long ago, I told Zeus everything—about Greg, about the abuse, about the threats. Zeus held me in the dark and promised Greg would never touch me again.
"That's…" I search for the right word. "Good.”
"Mm-hmm." Mom's tone turns sly. “Word on the street is that those bikers—the Renegade Kings—might know something about it."
My pulse kicks. "Who told you that?"
"I got my sources, baby. You know I do.” She's fishing. Trying to get me to confirm what she already suspects.
I don't take the bait. "Well, wherever Greg is, I hope he stays there."
"Oh, I imagine he will." A thread of satisfaction—or resignation—weaves through her voice.