Evelyn’s silence was the answer. The nausea returned hard and fast. I stepped away from the table. “You tested him without telling him?”
“He was a minor.”
“He is not a minor now.”
“No,” she said. “He is a professional athlete with a public image, a violent temper and a long history of making destructive choices when emotions are involved.”
“My God.”
“God had very little to do with it.”
I looked at her then. Really looked. And suddenly I understood something about Jaxon Kane that made my chest ache despite everything.
This was the room he had been raised in. This woman had raised him. She had raised him with this cold, polished, suffocating control. This belief that love meant information withheld, lives arranged and choices made on behalf of people deemed too fragile to hold their o
