Stryker paused as he saw that night so clearly in his mind. She'd stood before him with tears in her eyes. Not a single one had fallen. A tribute to her strength. He'd wanted nothing more than to pull her into his arms and tell her that he didn't give a damn about his father. That she was the only one he loved and that he'd die to protect her.
Had he stayed with her, his father would have killed her, no doubt. And if Apollo hadn't, he would have sent Artemis in to do the honor as Zephyra birthed his child and then he would have lost them both. Apollo was grotesquely vindictive that way. Stryker had tried to explain it to Zephyra, but she'd refused to listen.
"Then I will die loving you." That had been her answer to his arguments.
It'd been a sacrifice he hadn't been willing to make. He thought it best that she hate him and live rather than she love him and die. If only he'd known then what was waiting for them in the future.
"I didn't mean those words."
She scoffed. "Of course not. You were thoughtless, et cetera, et cetera. I really don't care anymore."
"If you really didn't care, you wouldn't remember them."
"Don't flatter yourself. I wrote you off the same way you wrote me off. Unlike Medea, I don't need closure. I just need you dead."
"So we're back to that."
"We will always come back to that."
Stryker would curse and rail, but honestly, it was what he deserved. She was right. He'd walked out and never looked back. No, that wasn't true. He had looked back. Often. He'd remembered their time together. Remembered the way she looked first thing in the morning when she'd been snuggled up beside him. The way she'd shyly glance at him as if she could eat him alive. He'd hated himself for giving that up. For giving her up.
Sighing, he moved toward the door. "I have duties to attend. Should you need anything, call for Davyn." Without another word, he was gone. Zephyra watched as he left her alone in his room. The look of hurt in his silver eyes had made her ache, and she hated herself for that weakness. Why did she still want to hold him after what he'd done to her?
Yes, she wanted to claw out his eyes and stab him until he was dead. But underneath that anger and hurt was the part of her that still loved him. The part of her that she tried so hard to bury and ignore. He was a beast and a coward. He's the father of your daughter.
So what? A biological donor who'd left them. That didn't make him a father. It made him an asshole. Her fury renewed, she glanced about the room that he slept in. It was rather plain. Burgundy coverings on the bed. No windows. A small chest of drawers and nothing hanging on the walls.
"You live like a bear in a cave."
There wasn't even a book on the nightstand. Which begged the question of why he had one. Then again, the top drawer was slightly cracked open. Perhaps there was one inside. Curious, she walked over to it and opened it. Her breath caught in her throat.
In the bottom of that drawer was the last thing she had ever expected to see again. It was the hand-painted tile that he'd commissioned of her as a wedding present. Memories slammed into her as she stared at the faded image of her in ancient Greek clothing, her blond hair bound up as curls fell around her face. Large green eyes were set in the countenance of utter innocence. She'd forgotten all about this tile's existence.
But Stryker hadn't. In spite of everything, he'd kept it. And underneath it was another tile and pictures of men who bore a striking resemblance to him. One picture in particular caught her attention. It was three men, similar in face and form, dressed in clothes from the 1930s. They had their arms slung over each other's shoulders as they smiled happily.
His sons. Over and over, she found pictures of them. The only other tile in the drawer was that of a girl who looked almost identical to Medea. A chill went down her spine as she ran her finger over the faded writing in the lower right hand corner. Tannis. She must have been his daughter, too.
She flipped it aside to find the most recent photo in the drawer. From the looks of the quality of the picture and the black clothing, she would guess it was no more than ten years old. It was of a young man with white-blond hair that was pulled back into a ponytail—the middle of the same three brothers from the 1930s. Even though his features were masculine, they were so close to Medea's as to be eerie. And as Zephyra tilted the photo in the light she realized something.
The stains on it were from tears.
"No," she breathed, unable to imagine Stryker crying over anything. He'd always been rigidly unsentimental. She'd seen him brutally wounded in sword practice and his eyes hadn't even misted. The only time she'd known them to cloud was . . . The night he'd left her.
And yet as she ran her hand over the stains, she knew nothing else would have caused them. Who, other than him, would have held this photograph in his room and cried? No one. They were his and he'd kept all of this in a place where he thought no one would find it.