at Nobu.”
Without Kell here to distract my mother, I’m relieved to learn that the house is free of her.
“Who’s she bending to her will now?” I mutter it nearly beneath my breath, half-suspecting the palm trees themselves are rigged with listening devices. “Let me guess. Jaden’s new director?”
“I didn’t recognize the gentleman,” he offers coolly, following me inside the foyer.
I spin around, widening my gaze. “You saw him?”
“They met in her office, briefly, before leaving together.”
I’m tempted to interrogate him more, but staying out of my mother’s affairs is safer. She already has an entourage to obsess over all the details surrounding her—an entourage that’s mercifully absent tonight, as well.
Still, I’m curious what kind of “gentleman” would be collecting her from the house and taking her out to dinner. My father—if he can be called that—only stayed in town long enough to produce the three of us. My memories of him are few and unremarkable. He was an incubus who disappeared as abruptly as he arrived after having done his duty. No more, no less. Exactly according to tradition.
A tradition that I cling to now, with at least a small sense of consolation, when contemplating my own fate. One day, I’ll have some semblance of freedom again.
One day…
That’s not coming anytime soon.
After a heavy sigh, I glance toward the back of the house and then turn my attention back to Dalton.
“I’m going to see if Gramps is up.”
He simply nods in response. I leave him to the mansion that’s emptier in more ways than one.
I journey across the tropical-landscaped backyard to the modest guesthouse. Flickering light from the television reflects across the glass. Through the window, I catch my grandfather’s figure in the kitchen. I open the door, and he turns from the stove, a wooden spoon in his hand. His eyes light up when he sees me.
“Kara.”
I smile and go to hug him. “Hey, Gramps. What’s for dinner?”
Then I spot the empty soup tin on the counter, and the answer is obvious. I cringe. “Canned soup? I think we can afford at least some better takeout for you.”
“Nonsense.” He snorts. “Chicken noodle is my favorite. No complaints here.”
Not convinced, I take the spoon from him and swirl the soup around the small saucepan. “Smells good at least.”
“It’s delicious.”
I laugh. “I’m pretty sure it’s the MSG.”
“Ah”—he waves his hand dismissively—“here, there’s enough for two. You can judge for yourself.”
He nudges me away so he can fill two bowls. We bring them to the little kitchen table that’s a few steps away.
“What brings you tonight, my sweet girl?”
I take a tentative spoonful of the salty soup. He’s not wrong. It is tasty. Its warmth fills me with the same comforting calm as his loving stare. “Just checking on you.”
He hums a response, which doesn’t sound quite like an affirmative. When I look up, one bushy white eyebrow has gone crooked.
“What?”
He slurps down another spoonful. “I appreciate you checking on me, ladybug. But I’m wondering if maybe there’s something else on your mind, that’s all.”
“Like what?”
“Like maybe your mysterious friend, if we’re still calling him that.”
I let my spoon rest against the bowl with a small clink.
“Have you seen him again?” His tone is light, but I don’t miss the seriousness lingering behind his words.
“I’ve seen him. Not sure I can call him a friend anymore, though.” As soon as I say it, I recognize it as fact. My irrefutable truth. Maximus is rapidly becoming more to me. So much more.
“Did you argue?”
I sigh. “We argue plenty.” Like when he pretends he can cut me from his class.
“And?”
“And that doesn’t really seem to keep us apart.” Sometimes—many times—it accomplishes the opposite. In electric, indelible ways…
As my mind fills with a string of hot Maximus-centered memories, my grandfather is discernibly quiet. I don’t search for meaning in the silence. I have more questions than answers when it comes to Maximus, especially now. But talking about how mixed up I am about him with anyone feels dangerous. Even if it’s Gramps. And especially when it’s Kell, who’s barely said a word to me since I admitted to falling for my mesmerizing professor.
“Have you learned any more about him?” he presses.
Gramps’s expression is more taut than when I arrived, matching the new mood in the air. Apprehension that probably has everything to do with me dancing with a dangerous prospect—a man who isn’t the demon I’ve been saving myself for.
“He doesn’t know who his father is,” I say, remembering the anguish it seems to cause—a