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PROLOGUE - SILAS
I take the fastest shower of my life, and considering I used to regularly crash in the clubhouse with twenty other people and very limited hot water, that’s saying something. Exhaustion weighs down my limbs, and it takes more effort than I’m comfortable admitting to step into a relatively clean pair of sweatpants.
I hang my towel on the back of the bathroom door and flick off the light, stepping into my bedroom. Hunter’s cries assault my ears instantly.
Exhaustion forgotten, adrenaline pumps through my veins so fast I feel dizzy as I run down the hallway toward his nursery. It’s not much, but Ma assured me that he won’t even remember the fact that he sleeps in a glorified walk-in closet. I gently lift him from his crib, careful to cradle his head as I tuck him against my chest. His little face is scrunched up with distress, and my heart thumps uselessly inside my chest. The sheer force of the panic I feel every time he cries is alarming.
Damn, this kid has a set of lungs on him.
“Shh, it’s okay, Hunter. It’s alright. Daddy’s here.” I cradle my newborn son to my chest, trying out that rock-sway thing and adding a little bounce I saw someone do on a YouTube video. His cries feel like needles piercing my heart. Death by a thousand cuts.
It feels like it lasts for hours, but my reality is warped by lack of sleep and the most anxiety I’ve ever experienced in my whole goddamn life. I’m scared and worried all the time.
Is he sleeping enough? Is he sleeping too much? Does he get enough food? How many times did he shit today, and what’s his weight at? The doctor told us he needs to gain some more weight back before he sees him at his one-month checkup in a few weeks.
By the time he calms down, I’m sweaty and ready for another shower. But Hunter is snoozing on my chest, wrapped up like a baby burrito, and I can’t bring myself to put him down.
“Let’s go find your mama, son,” I whisper, brushing my lips over the top of his head. He has that brand-new baby smell. I thought it was a fucking weird thing for people to talk about all the time, but I get it now. It’s intangible, and it doesn’t even smell like something familiar as much as it makes my heart squeeze with some unknown emotion. It’s hard to describe, but I just know that I’m going to miss it when it’s gone.
I head toward the kitchen, expecting to find Gloria at the table with one of the casseroles Ma keeps making and dropping off. But the kitchen is quiet.
“Gloria?” I keep my voice low, though a quick glance at my little football baby tucked into my arms shows his little mouth pursed open like a baby bird.
When she doesn’t answer me, I head down the hallway toward the bedroom. Maybe she fell asleep.
Gloria’s in the bedroom, but she’s not napping or even resting. She’s standing at the foot of the bed with an open duffel bag half full.
“What’s going on?” My brows sink into a deep V as i try to make sense of what I’m seeing before me
“Prez.” She stills, looking over her shoulder at me.
“C’mon, Gloria. I told you to call me Silas.” It’s not a reprimand, just a gentle reminder. We made a kid together, for fuck’s sake. I don’t want her calling me by my position within the Reapers.
“Right,” she says, swallowing audibly. “Well, I was going to leave you a note but . . .” She shrugs half-heartedly.
“Hunter was crying, like really crying. Didn’t you hear him?” I tilt my head to the side, my brain not quite catching up with what I’m seeing.
She glances at him almost curiously. It’s the same kind of look she’s given him since we came home from the hospital five days ago. Mildly curious but mostly disinterested. “He seems fine now.”
“What’s going on?” I ask again, suspicion creeping along my back and loosely wrapping around my throat.
She sighs, setting down the sweatshirt on top of her duffel. “I’m leaving.”
“What do you mean you’re leaving? What about Hunter?” I lift my arm up an inch to emphasize our perfect and adorable sleeping boy.
“Look, Silas. I’m not . . . cut out for this, okay? I did the right thing. I told you when I was pregnant, and I stayed here like you asked. But now he’s out and so am I.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?” I hiss, tilting my body away from her, as if it shield Hunter from hearing her talk so indifferent about him. “You’re his mother.”
She shakes her head, her eyes sagging with pity or acceptance, I can’t tell which. “I’m not his mother. I just gave birth to him.”
“I . . . I . . . can’t believe this.” I feel tongue-tied and speechless at the same time. My brain is demanding I say all these things to her, but shock holds my tongue hostage. With panic swiftly on its heels.
“I’m sorry, okay? But I never wanted kids. And I don’t want to play house with you, no offense. So I think it’s time I move on now, okay?” She sends me this sort of half-smile like she pities me.
“What am I supposed to tell him?” My heart aches at the fact that someday I’m going to have to tell my son that his mother willingly left him because she simply didn’t want to be here. Didn’t want him or me or this life.
She tucks her sweatshirt in the duffel bag, zipping it closed. She tosses the strap over her shoulder and looks at me. “I don’t really care what you tell him. That’s not really my business.”
