Chapter 11
London
Steam billows around us, thick and warm, as Zeus presses me against the tile wall. Water cascades down his shoulders, tracing the lines of his tattoos, and his mouth is on my neck—hot, open-mouthed kisses that make my knees buckle.
"Christopher,” I gasp as his hand slides between my thighs.
"Right here, sweetheart." His voice is a growl against my pulse point. His fingers find me, stroke me, and my head falls back against the cool tile. "Always so ready for me."
Two weeks. It’s been fourteen days since he took my virginity, since I gave him something I'd never given anyone. And every single day since, he's found new ways to make my body sing.
His free hand grips my hip, holding me steady while his fingers work me into a frenzy. I grab his shoulders, nails biting into wet muscle, and he hisses through his teeth—pleasure, not pain.
“I want you," I manage. "Inside me."
He doesn't need to be told twice. His hands drop to my thighs, lifting me against the wall. I wrap my legs around his waist, and he enters me in one smooth thrust that punches a moan from both of us.
"Fuck." His forehead drops to mine, eyes screwed shut. "Never gonna get tired of this. How tight you are. How wet you get for me."
He moves—deep, rolling thrusts that press me harder against the tile with each one. Water streams between our bodies, making everything slick and hot. I cling to him, my heels digging into the small of his back, urging him deeper.
"You like that, sweetheart? Like when I fuck you against the wall?"
"Yes." The word comes out wrecked. "Harder."
His grip on my thighs tightens, and he obeys. His pace turns relentless—pounding, claiming—and the sound of wet skin slapping fills the bathroom. My vision goes spotty. The pressure builds so fast it nearly hurts.
"Come for me." An order, not a request. "Come on my cock, London."
I detonate. My whole body locks and shakes, and I bury my scream in his shoulder. He follows seconds later, his hips stuttering, his arms crushing me against him as he spills his release.
We stay like that—tangled, panting, the water growing lukewarm around us—until my legs stop trembling enough to stand.
He sets me down with care, his hands lingering on my waist. Tipping my chin up, he kisses me. Slow this time. Tender. The contrast between the brutality of how he just took me and the gentleness of this kiss is something I treasure.
“I gotta get to the shop," he murmurs against my mouth. "Club business."
"Mmm." I don't want to let go of him.
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.
I sit with it. Search inside myself for shock, horror, guilt—any of the emotions a normal person should experience when learning that the man who raised them has “disappeared.”
I find nothing. No grief. No revulsion. Only relief.
Greg Bowman spent years making my life miserable.
He beat me, taught me to cry silently, locked me in rooms, starved me, and threatened things so vile I can't think about them without shaking.
He terrorized my mother and used her addiction as a leash.
He tracked me down at my new apartment and split my face open with his fist.
My world is better without Greg Bowman in it.
And if Zeus did what I think he might have done—I’m grateful. Fiercely, unapologetically grateful.
"London, baby?" Mom's voice pulls me back. "You still there?"
"I'm here."
"So, listen." Her tone shifts—higher, softer, laced with that wheedling quality I've heard a thousand times. "Now that Greg's gone, you can come home. Your room's still here. We can be together again, just you and me. Like old times.”
Old times? Does she mean the time when she was still just a drunk instead of a drunk and a drug addict?
"Mom, I don't think that's a good idea."
"Why not? The house is safe now. No more Greg. No more—"
"I'm not coming back to live there." I keep my voice firm despite the guilt she's expertly stacking on my shoulders. "I can visit. If you need something, I'll help. But I'm not moving back."
She sucks in a sharp breath. "You're choosing them over your own mother."
Them? What does she mean by that? “I’m choosing myself, Mom."
"I know you're at their compound." Her voice hardens. "The Renegade Kings. I know you went looking for your father there."
The hair on the back of my neck prickles. "How do you know that?"
"I got sources." She deflects so smoothly it's almost admirable. "Did you find him? Your daddy?"
"He's dead, Mom."
She goes quiet for a beat. No gasp of surprise comes. No words of comfort. No I'm sorry. She just says, “Hmm. Well. Ain't that something."
Not a trace of sympathy. Not for me, not for my father, not for the hope I carried. That's my mother—a black hole of self-interest surrounded by a thin shell of maternal performance.
"Come home, London." The wheedling returns, higher-pitched now, desperate. "I need you. I just got out of the hospital. I'm all alone here. You can't just abandon me."
Abandon. The word is designed to wound, and it almost works. She knows exactly where to aim—at the guilt I carry for leaving her with Greg, for not being able to save her, for being angry at a woman who's sick.
"I'll visit soon, Mom. I promise. But I'm staying where I am."
"Baby, please—"
"I have to go. I love you. Take care of yourself."
I end the call before she can launch another assault.
I hold my phone in my hand, screen dark, and I stare at it for a long time.
Greg is gone. Dead? Or running scared? Either way, I know Zeus did that for me. In a perfect world, I'd be horrified.
But this isn't a perfect world. This is Detroit, and Greg wasn't a problem that could be solved with a restraining order. He was a predator who would have found me eventually, no matter where I ran. Zeus removed a threat that would have haunted me for the rest of my life.
I set the phone on the nightstand and lie back on the bed.
The ceiling above me is the same one I've been waking up to for a week.
Mom knows I'm here. The how of it nags at me—her "sources," her casual knowledge of things she shouldn't know. But I push it aside for now. Whatever her connections are, they don't change my decision.
I'm staying. Here. With Zeus.