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“Middle of February.”
“Yeah?” Her face softened. “A Valentine’s Day baby.”
“I guess.” That hadn’t occurred to me, actually.
Now it hurt my heart.
A Valentine’s Day baby implied love, commitment. I suppose Talon was committed to me and the baby. He’d offered me his blood bond, after all.
But love?
I swallowed over the goose egg in my throat. “Love you both,” I said again.
Mom heaved a breath and squeezed my hand. “Love you, too, honey,” she said and helped me into my coat, then followed me out the door to the curb.
Mr. Jones was holding the SUV’s back door open.
I climbed inside. Mom leaned past him to ask, “When are we going to see you?”
I moved a shoulder in a helpless shrug. “I don’t know.”
“Text me then. I want to hear from you every day.”
“Can’t. I…lost my phone.”
“Eden.” Her mouth tightened. “I don’t like this. I don’t like this at all.”
“I know, but promise me you’ll give me a week or two, okay? If you do anything, you’ll only make things worse.”
“Make things worse?” she asked, her voice rising.
“Promise me, Mom. You were a thrall. You know how it is.”
“Damn it, Eden.”
“Please.”
Her lips pressed together, but she nodded. “A week. That’s all. And it’s going to be hard enough getting your father to agree to that.”
“Two weeks,” I said. “Please, Mom. This is important, okay? You have to let me work this out myself.”
I sat back before she could tell me no. Mr. Jones shut the door and got behind the wheel.
The last thing I saw was my mom dragging a hand down her braid, her worried, unhappy expression causing an answering lump to congeal in my stomach.
12
Talon
“Mom?” I tried the doorknob of my mother’s white clapboard cottage. Finding it unlocked, I let myself inside. The tiny foyer was dark, but there was a light in the kitchen. “Mom? It’s me, Talon.”
“In the kitchen,” she called in a voice raspy from too many cigarettes. She was smoking one now, a shot glass and a half-empty whisky bottle on the kitchen table in front of her.
All my memories of her were infused with the odor of tobacco and whisky.
Back then, the small cottage had been falling down around us while Esposito tossed away his pay—and most of my mom’s, too—playing poker or on get-rich-quick schemes. These days, the building was freshly painted and in good repair. I made sure of that, just like I’d hired a woman to come in a twice a week to clean and cook dinners for her. It was the only way I could be sure my mom was eating regularly.
“Hey there, sweetie.”
