the tears finally fall down her cheeks. “You’re the father of my child, Zeus. You’re the man I love. How can I not believe in you? In us? Against every single odd, despite everything, you made me hope again. Me, a whore.”
A rough sound tears from me. “You were never that.”
“I was. I am. It’s just that I’m your whore. I belong to you.”
“I’m sorry. I should never have touched you.”
“The whore and the Madonna,” she murmurs. “They’re inside all of us.”
I sink down to my knees at Brigit’s feet. She’s wearing a soft pink dress that skims the curve of her belly. It’s not hinted at anymore, it’s there, she’s here, and I place my hands on her and press my forehead to the new roundness of her and beg, with all my soul, for forgiveness.
Her fingers in my hair stroke me so gently, as if I’m made of glass.
The Madonna, she calls herself, and yes, it’s true. Even as I want to cherish her, I want to fuck her again. It’s a terrible thing, this impulse to defile the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met. But it won’t go away. Not ever. No matter how many times I fuck her.
Maybe I can love her, too. Without hurting her. Without turning into my father.
She’s warm and solid beneath my palms, small between my large hands. There’s only a small bump where our child sleeps, cherished by her body.
“What if I hurt you?” I murmur, and I don’t know whether I’m speaking to the child, which must be the size of a grain of rice. Or maybe I’m speaking to Brigit.
Maybe I’m even speaking to myself.
“You won’t,” she says, her voice at once soft and sure.
I look up at her, this woman I admire. Love. Obsession. They’ve burned together into an unholy brew. I tried to push her away for her own good, but she came back. “How can you have faith in me? I don’t trust myself with you.”
Her fingers clasp behind my neck. She leans down and places her mouth against mine. Not exactly a kiss, more a touch of her lips. “I have enough faith for both of us. Enough faith to last a lifetime, Zeus. Now love me. Prove me right.”
I swallow hard around the knot in my throat. Yes, I can love her. That’s the easy part. I take her there among the wooden crib pieces and bagged nails. I find every weak spot on her body, every strong link in her soul. She’s the only woman who could have faith in a faithless bastard like me, but she’s right. It’s strong enough for both of us.
21
Brigit
“Are you sure about this?” It’s November, blustery and damp, yet Zeus is insisting on a grand opening for his new brothel. He’s been working with the contractors night and day. “I don’t think this is the kind of thing people want to celebrate.”
He looks up from the small notebook he’s been writing in and a heat-lightning shock moves through me at the satisfaction in his eyes. “I’m forced to disagree, sweetheart. They do want to celebrate.”
I keep thinking he can’t be serious, but he is. He’s very serious. This is the opening day of the new Olympus, and we’re both going to be there. I’ll go anywhere for him, including a whorehouse, but he’s so serene about the entire thing it unnerves me. Plus, I already have to pee. The sooner we can get this ceremony—celebration—whatever it is—over with, the better.
The driver stops next to a freshly paved driveway in the back corner of the lot. Once upon a time, this was where the alleyway used to be. I waited out here in the dark, having a silent debate with myself, until Reya opened the door and everything began.
Now the loading dock has been moved to the opposite side. I’m not sure how it makes a difference, but it must. Every small change makes a difference to someone, according to Zeus. He’s been spending the last months with his head bowed over construction plans like they’re the Rosetta Stone. I asked him more than once what code he’s trying to break, but every time I did, his golden eyes would darken and heat. The plans would end up abandoned while he reinforced his rules about prying questions. They’re a game, those rules—I can ask him anything. But the sweet sting of his hands and the post-orgasm high—those things are real.
Zeus helps me out of the car and offers