Jeremy Greaves was a dangerous man, but I could barely take my eyes away from him. I'd seen a picture of Mark in the hospital on Officer Underwood's desk before he whisked it away. The only reason I'd recognized it was him were his stupid sideburns, his face was so discolored and swollen.

The sight had made me nauseous, and my relief that he was hurt only intensified that feeling. I shouldn't feel happy that anyone was in that much pain, but I knew that there was no way he was going to track us down in the next few days with his eyes swollen shut.

But Jeremy Greaves had done that to him, and Simon's chants about him being a hero had stirred my churning gut into a storm. But how could I tell him we couldn't glorify violence in front of the man I owed our lives?

And then Jeremy, dark, dangerous, foreboding, got down on Simon's level and told him the exact thing I wanted to say. Well, not the exact thing. He didn't believe in heroes, just villains, and I wasn't sure that was the case. Grover Greaves was our hero, for sure, and he hadn't resorted to violence.

How did Jeremy live with the contradiction? He willingly engaged in violence, but his words seemed to say he abhorred it.

Who was he?

Regardless of his words, the image of Mark's face kept flashing in front of my eyes, engaging my fight or flight instinct. Which was basically just a flight instinct. I wanted to run far, far away from both Mark and this man who both intrigued and terrified me.

But I couldn't run. No, I was done letting circumstances define me. I wouldn't run. I was following through on filing charges against Mark. It was a bit much to think about but I was going to see what I had to do to file for divorce as well. Not all at once, but I wouldn't be tied to Mark any longer. I wouldn't let him hold any power over me.

So no running.

Which still left me in a car with my dangerous savior and his gentle father. If you'd asked me to pick Grover's son out of a room full of men, I never would have picked Jeremy. Grover was a pretty normal height. Maybe just under six foot? Jeremy was at least four inches taller than him. They both wore work shirts from the garage, but where Grover's slouched over his shoulders, probably a size too big to make room for his middle-aged hint of a beer belly, Jeremy's seemed just on the edge of being a size too small, like the seams might bust if he flexed the wrong way. Jeremy's eyes were hard and unapproachable, while Grover's were warm and inviting. Jeremy's face was all angles, while Grover's were softer. Jeremy reached across the dash to turn the music up, and I saw that at least their hands were similar. Rough. Calloused. Stained with oil and other mechanical fluids.

Overall, you could tell Grover was rough in a blue-collar kind of way, but he was all pudding in the middle. Jeremy… I couldn’t figure him out completely. He wasn’t pudding, that was for sure.

Simon had perked up quickly after Jeremy's admonishment, and leaned between the two front seats, as far as his seat belt would let him, chattering Grover's ear off, the way he had every moment since waking. Grover didn't smile much—it didn't seem like his face was used to the expression—but he listened to Simon intently, asking questions just as if Simon was an adult.

I appreciated that. Not many people had the patience for a seven year old boy's conversation.

Jeremy... he was a fortress. I couldn't read him easily, though I could tell he had been broken. It had been in his eyes when he'd told Simon there were no heroes. I knew that look well. I'd seen it in my own reflection too many times. And as much as I hated violence, I hadn't thought Jeremy was a bad man. Dangerous, yes, but not bad. That he thought that about himself told me there was something dark in his past.

But what kind of darkness would have affected him that deeply without affecting his father similarly?

Mark had something broken in him too, and I'd given that a lot of thought over the last year. Once I'd stopped worrying about being in danger every day, I'd actually been able to wonder why Mark was the way he was. I'd never met his parents, and the only time Mark had spoken about them had been to say they weren't on speaking terms and when I'd suggested Simon might want to know his grandparents, he'd given me a sharp no and refused to discuss it further.

Had Mark become the way he was because of how he'd grown up, or had he been born that way? I really didn't know. And at this point, I didn't care, though I wondered. It didn't matter how he'd become the twisted man I knew. I couldn't fix it, and I didn't need to try anymore. He'd gone too far too many times. I knew that when I left.

How had one broken man turn to protection while the other turned to causing pain?

I'd thought myself so mature when Mark had sought me out. He'd been a fit, well off man, and I'd been just a skinny, lonely teenager. He'd still had his high school and college football muscles then. Now, he was pudgy.

No, I didn't have to be charitable anymore. Mark had gotten fat, and those muscles might still exist under his layers, but the only thing he'd used them for in the last decade was slapping me around.

I'd only slept with two people in my life, and the first had been an awkward fumbling with a high school classmate. In comparison, Mark had been so worldly, so sexy. He'd made me feel special just for having caught his attention.

Now I knew Mark had just been playing my naivete. When he told me "that's the way things are," I'd believed him.

"Do you live at Mr. Grover's house?" Simon asked, startling me from my thoughts.

A lightning strike of fear zipped through me, but no. Grover had said his sons had left.

Jeremy confirmed what I remembered. "No, I live about fifteen minutes away in my own house."

I understood the relief that whooshed through my body, but not the disappointment. It made no sense that I wanted to spend more time around Jeremy. I mean, yes, he was sexy and confusing in a way that made me want to peel back his layers, but I didn't know how to act around him. It wasn't like I could just ask him, "What broke you in two, and what put you back together?"

As we drove back into a familiar area, Simon tensed beside me, and I realized I was clawing marks into the vinyl of the seat under me. Grover pulled to a stop at his shop, and Jeremy hopped out. "Papa's still in the hospital," I whispered to Simon. "Look, the police took his car. He can't come get us right now, and even if he could, Mr. Jeremy and Mr. Grover would protect us."

Simon relaxed slightly, though I was still tense.

Jeremy leaned in through the open window. "Thanks, Dad. See you tomorrow?"

Grover nodded and grunted in response, and he turned around in the parking lot. As we pulled away, a loud purr rumbled behind us, and Simon and I turned to see what had made the noise. Jeremy pulled out of the garage on a long, sleek, shiny motorcycle, his head hidden by a full head helmet.

"So cool," Simon whispered as he pulled away. This time, I couldn't help but agree.