I press my palms against my eyes. I can't organize a single coherent thought. They all crash into each other a million miles a minute.
"I need space." The words come out muffled behind my hands. "I need to think."
"Okay." He nods. “I understand.”
I feel his eyes on me as I get up, gather my shopping bags, and stumble to the clubhouse, but I don’t meet his stare. I can’t even look at him.
There are empty rooms now that the visiting club has left, and I enter one that’s two doors down from his. The bed is made with fresh sheets. Someone left a water bottle on the nightstand.
I sit on the edge of the mattress with my duffel at my feet.
I'm not angry at Zeus. How could I be? He did what any loyal brother would do. What any good man would do when an innocent life hung in the balance.
Granted, he didn’t tell me. He let me walk around this club as though I belonged, as though my father was someone important in this club, while everyone but me knew the truth. But I’m not even mad about that.
The problem isn't Zeus.
The problem is me.
My father—the man whose blood runs in my veins—was the worst thing that ever happened to this club. He got brothers killed. He nearly killed Rowan. He betrayed every person who ever trusted him.
And I'm his daughter.
I showed up at these gates with nothing but his name in my pocket. I thought I was let in, that I was welcomed, because being Fiend's child gave me a right to be here.
But Fiend didn't earn rights. He forfeited them. Any connection to him isn't a bridge—it's a stain.
I’m the daughter of the club's most hated traitor. I don’t understand how Zeus can stand to look at me—how any of them can.
How long before the whispers start? Before brothers who respect Zeus question his judgment? Before my presence becomes a constant reminder of the man who stabbed him in the back?
I’ll hurt him just by existing in his world.
I can't do that to him.
The decision crystallizes with a cold, sharp clarity that leaves no room for debate.
I hoist my duffel over my shoulder.
The compound is quiet when I slip out. The prospect at the gate glances at me, then at my bag.
He cocks a brow as if to ask me if I’m going somewhere.
“If Zeus asks,” I keep my voice steady. "Tell him I'm safe. Tell him—" My throat closes. "Tell him I'm sorry."
The prospect nods, uncertain but not authorized to stop me.
I walk through the gate feeling like my heart is being shredded with each step I take away from the man I love.
Chapter 13
London
Mom's house smells the same—stale cigarettes baked into the wallpaper, the chemical tang of whatever cleaning product she over-sprays to mask it, and underneath, a sour rot that never goes away no matter how many windows you open.
I stand in the entryway with my duffel hanging from one shoulder. The door clicks shut behind me. The house is dim. The curtains are drawn, and only a single lamp is glowing from the living room. There’s no sound except the hum of the refrigerator and the distant tick of the kitchen clock.
"Mom?" My voice echoes against the narrow walls.
