Chapter 14
Zeus
I approach the spare room where London moved her things.
I don’t know how long I’m supposed to give a woman who asks for space. Hours? Days?
Well, it’s been hours that feel like days.
I’m probably fucking up by not staying away longer, but I can’t stand it anymore.
I knock. Then wait. Then knock again.
Nothing.
I knock harder. "Sweetheart. Open up."
No response. No shuffle of feet. No creak of mattress springs.
I reach for the knob and push the door open.
The room is empty. Completely empty. The bed is made up. Her duffel isn’t here. Her shoes aren't by the door. Her jacket isn't on the hook.
I'm already crossing to the closet—empty. The bathroom is dry. Not a single trace that she was ever here.
My fist connects with the wall before I make the conscious decision to swing. Plaster cracks. Pain explodes across my knuckles, but it’s not enough. I hit it again. Then, a third time. The drywall gives way, leaving a jagged hole.
She left. She’s gone.
She found out the truth about her father—about what I did—and she walked out on me.
I brace both hands against the damaged wall, head hanging between my arms, and force air through my lungs. The ragged sound fills the empty room.
I can't blame her. Can't even be angry. I killed her father. I kept that truth from her for over a week while I fucked her and held her and let her believe she was safe with me. Of course she ran.
I deserve this.
An hour later, the barstool supports my weight the way it's supported it hundreds of times these past six months. Whiskey fills the glass in front of me. I haven't touched it yet. I just stare at the amber liquid. "There he is."
I don't look up. Three sets of footsteps approach, and then I’m surrounded.
Rowan to my left, Kayla and Sarah to my right. Sarah leans against the bar with her arms crossed.
"You look terrible," Sarah says.
“I feel worse."
"Good." Rowan's voice carries zero sympathy. "You deserve to feel terrible. Sitting here drinking while your woman is out there alone."
"She's not my woman anymore." The admission burns my tongue like acid. "She left me.”
“Pfft. Men!” Kayla huffs. "You honestly think she left because she doesn’t want you anymore?”
“Of course,” I spit out the words maybe a little too harshly. “She found out I killed her father, and she walked. Message received."
All three of them exchange a look—the kind that communicates entire paragraphs without a single word.
"Zeus." Sarah's tone shifts from angry to almost pitying. "You told her everything, I assume. About Fiend’s betrayal, the cartel, the kidnapping, the cliff. You told her you pulled the trigger to save an innocent woman's life, correct?”
"Yeah."
"And you think a girl who spent years being beaten and abused by a man twice her size is going to despise you for doing what you had to do to save Rowan?"
I lift my head.
"She doesn't hate you for killing Fiend," Rowan says with absolute certainty. "I'd bet my life on it."
"Then why'd she leave?"
“Our guess? Which, may I say, is probably pretty accurate," Kayla's voice softens, “is that she thinks being Fiend's daughter makes her unwelcome here. She thinks that the club will resent her for who her father was and that her presence here hurts you—or it will.”
"She left to protect you, you dense blockhead,” Rowan adds.
To protect me? What kind of fucked up logic is that?
I have to find her and set her straight. I shove off the barstool, but before I can formulate a plan, the clubhouse door opens. Demon strides in with Fuzzy half a step behind. Demon's face gives nothing away—his default—but the set of his shoulders makes the hair on my arms stand up.
"Zeus. We got business, brother.”
"What is it?”
Demon pulls out a chair at the farthest table and drops into it. He motions for me to join him. Whatever he has to say, it looks serious. Clearly, he doesn’t want the women to hear.
As soon as I’m seated, he begins, “When London showed up at our gate, I started a background check. Standard protocol." He holds up a hand when my fists ball. "It's my job to vet anyone we bring under this roof. You know that.”
"Get to the point."
"Her mother, Karen Hargrove, is a long-time addict—pills, alcohol, and for the past year, Raven. Ended up in a coma at Henry Ford. Same situation as Fury's stepsister."
I know all this. London told me.
"Except Karen woke up," Demon continues. “And was discharged a little over a week ago."
"I know. London talked to her yesterday."
Demon nods. "After London mentioned the phone call, I had Karen followed."
"You had London’s mother followed?"
Demon's dark eyes hold mine. “Brother, a woman connected to our newest resident gets released from a hospital stay caused by a cartel drug, and you don’t think my first instinct is to monitor her?"
He's right. I should've thought of it myself.
Demon looks at Fuzzy. "Show him."
Fuzzy pulls out his phone, taps the screen, and holds it up.
The footage is grainy—shot from a distance, probably from a car window. A thin woman in leggings and an oversized sweatshirt stands outside a bodega on the east side. She looks how London might if London were twenty years older and ravaged by decades of substance abuse.
A black SUV pulls up. A man exits—tall, shaved head, dark clothing. Even in the grainy footage, I can make out the tattoo crawling up the side of his face.
A crow.
Los Cuervos.
Karen approaches him. They embrace. Then she kisses him—not a peck, but a full, lingering mouth-to-mouth that speaks of familiarity. Intimacy.
Ice floods my veins.
"London's mother is involved with the cartel," Demon states flatly. "Has been since before her hospital stay, based on our timeline."
Karen has cartel connections?
According to London, her mother somehow knew she was staying here at the compound. She asked London to come home—begged, was the word London used. Her mother begged. Something’s not right about that.
And London left. Ten to one, she went back to her mom’s house.
“How long ago did London leave here?” My voice is surprisingly level for the amount of adrenaline being dumped into my system.
“Gate log says she left around an hour ago,” Fuzzy answers.
"If the cartel knows London's been with us—" I start.
Demon's jaw tightens. "They could use London as leverage against the club."
"Or—" Kayla's voice comes from behind me, thin and strained.
I turn. She's standing with the other ol' ladies, who were apparently all eavesdropping. Kayla’s face is drained of color.
"They also traffic women," she says.
The whiskey glass shatters against the wall. I don't register throwing it. I'm already moving—toward the door, toward the parking lot, toward my bike.
"Zeus!" Demon's on his feet, matching my stride. "You can't go in alone. Give me sixty seconds to grab—"
“She might not have sixty seconds." I slam through the clubhouse door into daylight. My boots eat concrete on the way to my Harley.
Demon's hand clamps my shoulder, spinning me. "Weapons. Backup. Don't be a dead hero."
He's right. Charging in blind is how people get buried. And if I'm buried, who saves London?
"Sixty seconds," I grit out.
Demon disappears back inside.
Fifty-eight seconds later, Demon reappears with Fuzzy, both of them armed. Chaos and Fury are right behind.
"We ride together," Chaos says. Not a question.
Demon passes me a Glock. I check the magazine. Fifteen rounds. I rack the slide and tuck it into my waistband before mounting my bike.
The engine roars to life beneath me. My hands remain steady on the handlebars as every nerve in my body screams the same thing.
Hold on, sweetheart. I'm coming.