On the Edge of Love (Mama's Brood Book 1) Read Online Free PDF Page B

people,” Coen said.
    “Sorry, but I don’t see shock. There’s some fear, yes, but upstairs I saw her think clearly and rationally enough to defuse a situation that could have quickly turned deadly. She looks us in the eye. Even him. She’s engaging, given the circumstances. She’s confident enough to ask for what she wants and lets you know what she doesn’t want. And she’s a liar. You feel a need to protect because she’s trying to act like a terrified victim. But it slips. It’s not consistent or seamless. She pretends to be passive, but she’s not good at it.”
    Listening to him, Zeus remembered something about Terry having been a specialist in criminal and victim behaviors. The man had verbalized what Zeus instinctively knew. Like him, the woman was a survivor. He was intelligent enough to know that for as long as he wanted to fuck her, he was obligated to keep her alive. After their business was done, Coen could play the dark knight all he wanted.
    Tired of standing around interacting with the two men, Zeus banged against the steel door a few inches away from Coen’s head, smiling inside when the other man flinched.
    The door buzzed, indicating the lock had been disengaged.
    Zeus pushed passed Coen and entered Mama’s living room. The space he immediately walked into was living room ish , he guessed. Nothing like the one in his cabin.
    There were a tan couch and love seat, two rocking chairs, and two plump recliners. The large red, tan, and brown patterned rug, probably Persian because that was the only rug he knew the name of, was enclosed by the seating. There were two small tables, one between the couch and love seat and another between the rocking chairs. There were vases, candles, and sconces—the names of which he’d learned about by watching some cable home decorating network. If he were to guess, he’d say the room would be described as inviting , warm , or homey . He’d describe it as a waste of fucking energy. He snorted, finding his wit humorous.
    “He surely is one mad bastard,” Big Country said as he and Lynx entered the room behind him.
    Zeus went to sit on the floor next to Sabrina’s legs, less than two inches of space separating them. On the other side of her, also seated on the love seat, was Almaya, the woman the others called Mama. The two women, drinking what smelled to be peppermint tea, could have been mother and daughter, aunt and niece. Similar noses, an upward tilt of the eyes, same brown skin tone. He looked down at the skin covering his hands and arms. His ancestry was a mystery to anyone who saw him. His skin was the palest golden bronze, his eyes were gray, his hair was a darker gold than his skin, and his facial features could have been found in people across many cultures. Wide, high cheekbones, hard angular jaw, strong nose. The nuns he had been left with said a half-French, half-Algerian woman had birthed him at St. Catherine’s Hôpital Pour Les Indigents in Marseilles thirty-eight years ago. He and his mother had moved to the convent area of the hospital when he was two days old. Eleven days later the woman named Zahira Sauvageau, born March 18, 1959, had abandoned the son she’d named Zeus—no last name. The only parental information he had on his birth certificate related to his father was his nationality. Greek. With the closure of the convent when he was nine, the nuns, still uncertain if he was a child of God or of the devil, brought the orphaned Zeus to their sister orphanage in America. Five years later, at the age of fourteen, he’d taken his leave from the place.
    Zeus continued to watch the two women, noting details. Sabrina wore her natural hair in a plethora of two-strand twists, while Almaya had dark locs sprinkled with gray, which fell to the small of her back. Almaya was short, no more than five-two, while Sabrina was taller, more muscled, built like a sprinter. He could feel the heat radiating off her. It was the only thing that lay in the