It was true. Any belief she'd had in the world, in kindness or so-called humanity, had died alongside her grandson. Kill the monster. Rip out his heart so he doesn't kill us.
Five years old . . . no monster. Just a child, screaming for his parents to save him. For his grandmother to make them stop hurting him. She'd done her best to protect them all and the sad truth was her best hadn't been good enough. They'd dragged him down and clubbed him to death.
Her baby's baby.
She had died that night, and it was a sad, hollow core that was now her heart.
"Life is hard," she said with a calmness she didn't really feel. She'd known it even before then. As the daughter of a fisherman, she'd been raised with hunger and poverty gnawing at her belly and dignity while her father had tried to eke out a living from the sea. His failure to do so had caused him to turn on his own family. It'd turned him into a bitter drunk who blamed them for his own failings. Blamed them for the fact that he'd had them and that they depended on him for their support. He'd hated them all and he'd never failed to show them that.
In all her life, she'd never known respect or kindness until a lean, handsome boy had stopped her on the docks.
Even now she could see the sun highlighted in his blond hair. See the admiration in those beautiful blue eyes as he'd looked at her. He'd been wrapped in the purple chiton of a nobleman that set off his young warrior's body that was already showing the promise of the man he'd grow into.
Thinking he intended to accost her as many others had before him, including her own drunken father, she'd kneed him in the groin and run.
He'd chased her down only to apologize for scaring her.
Apologize. The son of a god to a common fishmonger dressed in rags. It'd been love at first sentence. Then when he'd taken his own cloak off to shield her from the stern sea breeze, she'd melted on the spot.
There for the briefest of times, she'd felt loved and cherished. She'd felt worth something more than dirt beneath other people's feet.
Until Apollo had come in condemning their relationship on the grounds that she was garbage, unworthy of a demigod, and Stryker had sheepishly obeyed his father's orders to leave her.
Anger tore through her from the memory.
"I don't believe in fairy tales," Zephyra told her daughter.
"Yet you raised me on those stories."
Because she'd wanted her child to be a better person than she was. She hadn't wanted to kill Medea's innocence the way her own had been slaughtered.
"I love you, child," she whispered. "In all my life, you are the only thing that has brought me unending joy. You are the only one I would die to protect. I don't love your father. I'm not capable of it anymore."
Medea inclined her head to her. "As you say, Mum. But I still see the light that comes on the moment he enters the room." She started to leave, then paused. "For the record, if by some miracle I could have Evander back in my life, I wouldn't push him away. I'd hold him close for the rest of eternity."
"He didn't abandon you when you were a fourteen-year-old girl pregnant with his child."
"True, but Evander wasn't a fourteen-year-old boy whose father had the power to kill us both with a single thought."
Zephyra didn't speak as Medea left her alone. It was true. Stryker had only been a boy himself and he had left her quite a bit of money to care for herself and the baby, but the shattered pieces of her heart refused to rationalize his behavior.
He should have fought for what he loved.
That was what she couldn't forgive. Ever. No, what she couldn't forgive was the way he'd made her feel like an insignificant worm unworthy of his love. She'd have rather he let his father kill her than to be that demoralized again. Everyone deserved dignity.
Everyone.
Except for Jared, and as she stood there she realized why she took so much joy in torturing him. He'd betrayed his own family, too. His fellow soldiers. When they had needed to band together, to fight for their survival, he'd been the one to hand them over to their enemies for slaughter.
She would forever hate him for that. Just as she would hate Stryker for his abandonment.
Sighing, she turned to reor ga nize the desk that she'd just or ga nized a few minutes ago. She'd only taken a step when a light flashed.
It was Stryker.
Damn if Medea wasn't right. Her heartbeat picked up at the way he looked standing there. One lock of his black hair fell into his eyes. His features were steeled and perfect, and dusted by just the tiniest bit of whis kers. Nothing would give her more satisfaction than running her tongue down the line of his jaw and letting that shadow prick at her skin.
Anger ripped through her at the thought and the way her body betrayed the hatred she wanted to feel toward him. "What do you want?"