The city stretched up like quartz against the fading sunlight, the colors of the sky deepening with every second that slipped by. Ares’s eyes were on the horizon, slashed with the darkening skyscrapers at the southern tip of Manhattan, but his mind was a thousand years behind him, and her face filled the space in between.

They were Mars and Venus. Man and woman. Ares and Aphrodite. The bond between them was unbreakable, undeniable, no matter how she had tried to reject it, tried to stay away. She’d never quite succeeded. She never would.

Even the gods could not betray the will of the stars.

It had been a hundred years since she warmed his bed, a hundred years of waiting for her. Now they would compete again in a game that mattered little to him. His prize was far greater than a token to be paid for a favor — he wanted her. And for the first time in a very long time, he had a chance to keep her.

Adonis had been in the way far too long — even murdering the human hadn’t removed him from the equation — but now the ground had shifted, tilted in Ares’s favor, and with Aphrodite’s footing unsteady, she would fall.

He would catch her.

This time, he wouldn’t let go.

Ares had already chosen his human player, and soon he would make his way down to the throng of gods who waited for the game to begin. She would be there. She would make her choice, and the fire between them would ignite as it always did — first with a spark, then a flicker. Then, she would be consumed, and so would he.

It would be the same as it ever was, and he was so starved for her, his body tensed from head to heart to heel in anticipation of what was to come.

From a hundred years down to a few days, the distance traveled worth every second of longing, and with every moment that passed, the stars moved closer to alignment and to his favor. And there was nothing she could do to fight it.

He’d see to that.

Aphrodite sank into her velvet couch with a sigh as she and Persephone looked in on Lex and Dean. He sat bent over his guitar, plucking and strumming a tune, pausing occasionally to jot down lyrics in his notebook as Lex watched on sketching, her hand moving with certainty as she composed his likeness with a series of lines, complex in their simplicity. He looked over at her and smiled, abandoning his guitar to climb onto the couch with her, taking her face with his hands, capturing her lips with his own.

Perry let out a sigh of her own. “I’m going to miss them.”

“Me too,” Dita said. “But they got their happy ending.”

“And Apollo too,” Perry added.

“Apollo’s happy ending might have been the most satisfying part of all. Even though there were repercussions.” Dita squirmed, thinking about Adonis.

“Adonis still hasn’t shown up?” Perry asked, reading her mind.

Dita shook her head. “It’s been weeks. I go to Elysium every night in my dreams, but he’s never there. It shouldn’t come as a surprise, I suppose. He’s angry. I get it.”

“Apollo killed him,” Perry said flatly. “You’d be pissed too.”

“He believes Apollo killed him. But you know just as well as I do that Apollo doesn’t do revenge killings. I know what Apollo says, but I also know better than to believe all I hear. Especially when it comes to Ares. He can deny his involvement all he wants, but my gut says something isn’t what it seems. Not that it matters to Adonis.”

“Well, Adonis never was one for reason.”

Dita chuffed. “No, he wasn’t. But still, I’m holding out hope that he comes around. He just needs time.”

“I hope so. Are you ready to compete with Ares?”

“Not really.” Dita sighed again, this time to relieve the bit of pressure squeezing her ribs at the thought of Ares anything. “Lex and Dean were fun — Apollo always picks the best players — but this is going to be stressful. Ares’s types aren’t exactly sunshine and rainbows.”

“More like napalm and cigarettes.” Perry pulled her knees up and rested her chin on them. “What kind of player do you think he’ll choose?”

“Probably some asshole with a huge chip on his shoulder. They stick with what they know.”

A dry laugh burst out of Perry.

“He’ll pick someone fucked up, and I’ll have to pick someone equally fucked up. It’s vicious. But it’ll all work out. I’ve got my ass-kicking boots laced tight and my Girl Power playlist locked and loaded. Plus, when do I ever lose?”

“Never.” But Perry seemed unconvinced, watching Dita with big hazel eyes. “You’re going to sleep with Ares, aren’t you?”

“I don’t want to, but my Adonis buffer is gone,” Dita admitted. “And Ares … what exists between us is bigger than I can control. It’s instinctive, compulsive.”

Perry’s lips drew together like purse strings. “Ares is a douchelord, and I hate him.”

“Part of me does too. But it’s more complicated than that. I love him, but I also want to blow him into a billion pieces.”

Perry chuckled. “I bet you do.”

Dita rolled her eyes. “We have children, history, a bond. And when we compete?” She laughed at the futility of it all. “We both want to win, which only stokes the fire between us. It’s always been this way. I don’t know how to stay away from him, Perry.”

She shrugged. “I dunno. Maybe Heff will make you an extra-special, fancy vibrator.”

A laugh shot out of Dita. “That conversation wouldn’t be awkward at all.”

“Something tells me Heff would rather make you a magical vibe than see you hook up with Ares.”

“True,” Dita admitted. “But maybe I can find a way to hold out. Maybe Adonis will come back to me.” The words were tinged with hope.

But Perry’s eyes were sad. “Maybe he will.”

The string that connected the gods was plucked, tugging on Dita’s heart, and the goddesses met eyes.

“It’s time,” Perry said solemnly.

“Bring on the pain.”

The goddesses headed down to the common area of Olympus, which was modeled after a high-end New York high-rise. The living room and kitchen were empty of gods, but as they approached the theater room, the hum of chatter rose to greet them. And when Perry and Dita walked in, faces turned to look — some whooping and clapping, others narrowing their eyes.

Apollo waved them over to the front row where he’d saved a few seats, and Daphne beamed at them from Apollo’s side as they approached.

Ares walked in just behind them, and she felt his presence like an electric charge, raising the hairs on her arms and the back of her neck. His body called to hers without speaking a word, and she found herself watching him as he sauntered up to Hermes, head of the games, who stood next to the ninety-inch screen.

Ares caught her gaze and held it, his blue eyes pinning her down, the set of his square jaw determined and his shoulders broad enough to carry the weight of a thousand years.

He broke the connection, releasing her, and she tucked her legs in, leaning closer to Perry, as if her friend could save her from the inevitable.

She searched for her composure, and once she grabbed hold, she hoisted it up like an anchor.

Hermes huffed impatiently, though he wore an impish smile. “Ares, good of you to join us. You’ve finally decided on a player? Was a month not enough to figure it out? Or do you just enjoy making us wait?”

Ares’s eyes narrowed, and the hinge of his jaw jumped. “You’ll wait as long as I wish, Herpes.”

Hermes was unfazed. “Inspired insult, really. Truly original. I do hope you didn’t sprain anything composing it.”

Ares snatched the remote from Hermes’s hand, arching over him. “I’m good.”

When he clicked on the television, the scene on the screen was frozen. Two bloodied men stood in a makeshift boxing ring, the bright lights around them reflecting off their glistening bare chests. The crowd around them expressed a variety of emotions — from screaming to laughing to fists in the air or heads in hands.

The bigger of the two men was a brutish redhead wearing a sneer that framed bloody teeth. His taped fist was inches away from the face of his opponent — a blond with a tattoo of a snake curling around his biceps and down to his forearm, poised to strike. The blond fighter’s eyes flickered with the realization that he couldn’t stop what was about to happen.

A laugh shot out of Dita. “Please tell me your player is the guy about to get punched in the face.”

Ares scowled and hit play, and the entire room flinched at the smack of skin on skin.

Dillon saw stars.

Tiny bursts flashed behind his eyelids, and the sound of the crowd around him disappeared behind the ringing in his ears from the impact of the blow. MacFayden bounced around Dillon, but Dillon kept his fists up, shaking his head to clear it as his sight dimmed and brightened with his pulse. But he never stopped tracking MacFayden, his other senses dialed up as he blinked back disorientation.

He felt the movement first, the smallest tremor of air and atoms touching his nerves, and he ducked instinctively. MacFayden’s big arm swept over Dillon’s head, but Dillon kept moving, raising up with a hook that slammed into MacFayden’s ribs. The beast let out an oof, spraying spit and blood in an arch.

And then Dillon had his footing.

He locked onto MacFayden, feeling the shift of power, filling him with determination. Time slowed. He hooked the giant in the jaw, then the ribs, then the nose to the sound of percussive smacks that fueled him, spurred him on and on.

MacFayden staggered from the blow to his nose, joggling his head and listing just before his legs gave out, and he crumpled to the ground. Dillon stalked around him, pinning him down with his eyes, silently daring him to get back up.

The closest the man got was rolling over to spit out a gob of blood, but when he tried to pick himself up, he failed, landing on his back.

Even then Dillon couldn’t break the connection, pacing around MacFayden like a cat, coiled like a spring. All he could hear was his rushing blood and heavy breath. All he could see was a challenger, a task to end. It wasn’t until the ref grabbed his hand and lifted it into the air that the noise of the spectators slowly made its way into the quiet of his mind, and when the crowd exploded, he threw his free fist up.

Only then did it begin to end. The bloodlust. The fever. The rage. And the loss left him empty.

His manager — and one of his closest friends — Brian ducked between the ropes with a towel and water as MacFayden’s crew came to his aid, but Dillon was still far away as he took the offered water bottle and poured it into his mouth, over his face. He scrubbed a hand across it before spitting a mouthful of blood-tinged water onto the floor.

Brian guided him out of the ring and through the faceless mob. Only distantly did Dillon register the claps on the backs, the hands of strangers against his steaming skin. His name drifted to his ears from what felt like miles away, his body humming like an engine as people pressed in on him from all sides.

The back of the warehouse was silent. Dillon made his way to a stack of pallets where he’d left his bag, and as Brian chattered around him, he unwound the wraps on his hands and wrists, packing them away.

“Did you hear me?” Brian asked, only a little impatient.

When Dillon turned, Brian’s hand was extended, offering him his shirt.

“Sorry.” Dillon took it and pulled it on.

“MacLennan’s tonight, after you get cleaned up. You’ll be there, right?” Brian’s heavy brows were low, and the question was heavy with implication.

With a sigh, Dillon stuffed his leather jacket into his bag

If he hadn’t known Brian since high school, he’d never agree. If Brian hadn’t seen him through the hardest times in his life, he’d refuse. Because he didn’t want to go to the bar. He never wanted to go. A hundred people would be there from the fight, all watching him, all wanting a piece, however big or small they could manage.

When he was in the ring, he didn’t even know they were there. Outside the ring, there was nowhere to hide.

He grabbed his bag and hung it over his shoulder as he headed for the back door. “Do I have a choice?”

“Not really.” Brian smirked, folding his meaty arms across his broad chest, a bulldog in every sense of the word.

Dillon leaned against the door, pushing it open. “Then I’ll be there.”

Brian’s shoulders relaxed. “I’ll settle everything here and meet you at the bar.”

Dillon nodded and stepped outside, welcoming the cool winter air that sharpened his edge even more.

Warehouses stood in the silence all around him, watching him, listening to his footfalls echoing from their walls. His shiny black GTO waited there between them, offering solitude, even if just for a moment. Dillon popped the trunk to throw his bag inside and closed it with a thump in an automatic motion. When he slipped into the driver’s seat, the blood-red leather creaked under him, then again as he leaned forward to slip the key into the ignition.

His car thundered to life around him, and he gripped the trembling wheel with bloodied, swollen hands. In a few hours, he’d feel like shit. Until then, he would drive the adrenaline off.

He took the back streets for the sake of his accelerator, appreciating every moment a red light turned green, reveling in the feel as his engine climbed, savoring every corner he could take a little too fast.

There was something to be said for the feeling of controlling something powerful, of taming something dangerous.

By the time he pulled into the alley behind his brownstone in Brooklyn Heights, he was a little more himself, though the ache of his fingers and muscles rose a closer to the surface with every heartbeat. The sound of his engine rumbled deeper when he pulled in the alley; it tried to contain the thundering and failed.

His garage was a necessary expense — a stupid expense, but a necessary one — and once he pulled in and killed the engine, he closed the heavy metal door and shut the evening out behind him.

Weariness sounded with every stair-step, the heaviness of his boots demanding his attention with every footfall. But none of that mattered when he found his brother, Owen, on their L-shaped leather couch, book in hand.

He was the reason for everything.

Owen’s dark hair was swept back from his face, which was long and boyish and full of hope that Dillon had lost long before. His brows rose at the sight of his older brother. Judging by his expression, Dillon figured he looked like shit.

“You look like shit,” Owen said.

Dillon laughed. “I feel like I look like shit.” He dropped his bag by the stairs.

“How’d it go?”

“Long, but I won.”

“I figured as much. When was the last time you lost? Three years ago?”

“Four.”

“Such a bad motherfucker.” Owen snapped his book closed. “Want some help from the doctor?”

Dillon cocked a half.smile. “If you wouldn’t mind. But let’s put doctor in quotations. You haven’t graduated yet.”

“It’s not like I haven’t had plenty of practice in the craft, seeing as how you’ve been getting your ass kicked regularly since you were ten.”

Owen offered Dillon a sad smile that Dillon returned.

He set his book down and stood, pacing over with long strides, stopping in front of Dillon, leaning in to give his brother’s face a once-over. “You might need a stitch or two, but we’ve seen worse. Anything broken?”

“Not sure. I’m still amping.”

“Take a deep breath,” Owen said as he laid his hands on Dillon’s ribs, gently mashing them.

Dillon inhaled and let it out. “No pain.”

“Good.” Owen jerked his chin to the downstairs bathroom. “Come on, meathead.” He stepped around Dillon to lead the way. “Where’s the party?”

“MacLennan’s. I’m sure Brian is already there buying rounds on me,” Dillon said on a laugh as he followed.

“Don’t act like you mind.”

He chuckled in answer as he stepped into the bathroom, gazing into the wide mirror while Owen pulled out a box of medical supplies, lining up bottles, scissors, and bandages on the granite countertop.

Dillon’s blond hair was wild from sweat and the fight, and he turned his head, rubbing his bruised jaw. A deep cut under his eye was actively bleeding, though he hadn’t noticed, and his lip was cracked open and swollen. He yanked his shirt over his head and assessed his torso and back, his aching muscles rippling when he twisted from side to side.

Owen was right; they’d seen worse. Much worse.

He bent over the sink to rinse his face, wincing when the cold water hit his cuts, wincing even more when he gingerly dabbed it dry with a small towel.

“Sit,” Owen commanded.

Dillon did as he’d been told.

When Owen approached, he was armed with a cool, damp cotton pad that he used to clean the cut under Dillon’s eye. He followed that with a cotton swab dipped in Adrenaline Chloride, leaning in to dab the seeping cut.

“That should stop the bleeding.” He turned Dillon’s face, angling it toward the light. “No stitches after all.”

“Small miracles.”

Owen motioned for him to stand and circled him, applying pressure to his ribs and back. “Anything?”

Dillon winced when Owen pressed his left kidney. “Just tender.”

“All right,” he said, stopping in front of Dillon again. “Let’s see the moneymakers.”

Dillon held out his hands, palms down. His knuckles were split and bleeding, his hands swollen. Owen turned on the faucet and pulled Dillon’s hands under them to scrub them clean before patting them dry with a fresh towel. And then he inspected them one at a time, digit by digit.

“You are one lucky son of a bitch,” Owen said as he kneaded and wiggled Dillon’s index finger.

One corner of Dillon’s lips rose. “Luck’s got nothing to do with it.”

Owen laughed and turned to clean up. “Go put some ice on those before they get ugly.”

“Shower first, then ice.”

At that, Owen sniffed dramatically and smiled. “Good idea.”

Dillon wondered, as he did so often, just how he’d survived. No, he hadn’t just survived. He had thrived. Against all odds, he’d found a way to keep breathing.

He’d saved his brother and saved himself. And in the end, that was all that mattered.

Everything else was just noise.

The theater room was a buzz of discussion and bobbing heads, and Ares folded his arms, looking pleased.

Dita didn’t like it. Not one bit.

She unfolded herself from her seat and walked across the room, catching his eye, not stopping until she was close enough to feel the hum of his proximity all the way through her. She took the remote from him, and when her fingers brushed his palm, a zip of electricity shot up her arm.

But she focused instead on her plan, clean and crisp in her mind, hitting a button on the remote.

The screen flickered from Dillon’s back as he walked up his stairs to an olive-skinned, almond-eyed Japanese beauty in a gunmetal-gray 1969 Camaro. Her face was the picture of calm concentration as she gripped the steering wheel white-knuckle, her body tight and determined, set by confidence and certainty.

“I’d like you all to meet Kat,” Dita said, a little too sure of herself.

When she hit play, the low rumble of the engine filled the room.

Kat glanced at the red Corvette next to her and revved her engine, unable to suppress the smallest of smiles. The driver leered at her — his hair jetted out from his head in douchey spikes and his smile curled inside an overly manicured goatee.

When he saw she was looking, he licked his lips and flicked his tongue.

She rolled her eyes and pumped the accelerator with one foot on the clutch, turning her attention to her tachometer as it redlined.

The light was red, bathing her in menacing light, throwing everything else into shadow, and her heart banged, Camaro rumbling under her, waiting, anticipating. With one hand, she squeezed the wheel, her stick shift gripped in the other, and she stared at that red light with her breath still in her tingling lungs.

Green.

She let her foot off the clutch and floored the accelerator in synchronicity, sending her wheels smoking before they caught pavement and shot her off the line. The force kicked her body back into the seat.

The Goatee slipped behind.

Her engine climbed, and Kat shifted the second her engine hit the note she knew so well. But The Goatee nosed up in her sideview, a threat she wasn’t likely to let gain. She leaned forward, eyes narrowed, objective in her sights.

When she slammed it into third, he had inched up — close enough that when she glanced over, she caught sight of him glowering at her through the window.

She glared right back, though her lips smiled, a sardonic curve that was as natural to her as breathing.

There was nothing so sweet as proving people wrong.

Her engine hit the sweet spot, and when she shifted gears again, she pulled away from him, speeding under the light just as she redlined.

A whoop filled the cabin as her heart pumped like a piston, her hands numb as she downshifted and then again before pulling over at the meeting spot — a block down from the finish line. Kat killed the engine and sat back in her black leather seat, running her hands over the steering wheel, feeling the relief of having raced again for the first time in a month — one very, very long month.

She popped open her door and stepped out of the car, trailing her fingertips down the length of shiny metal as she walked toward the group gathered around the Corvette.

The Goatee stepped out of his car, slammed the door, and marched toward her, red -aced. “No way. No fucking way you beat me, you little cunt,” he spat, stopping in front of her with a jab of his finger. “You’ve got no business being here.”

He took a step closer, arching over her, and a couple of guys moved to intervene.

She held them off with a hand.

“No,” he said, licking his lips. “You belong somewhere else. On your knees. With a cock in your mou—”

He’d been so busy sucking his own dick, he hadn’t even registered her winding up to pop him in the nose.

The Goatee doubled over, swearing, but Kat just smiled and folded her arms across her chest with that cynical smile on her lips. Same bullshit, different track. “Aw, what’s the matter? Is your ego hurt? What can I do for you, pumpkin? Give you an apology?” The question was saccharine, and her smile slipped away, her hips shifting, setting her long legs in a brazen V. “I’m sorry you’re a misogynistic fuckface who wildly underestimated my skills and equipment, both of which are clearly superior to your own.”

He spat on the ground. “Fuck you, bitch.”

“In your dreams, asshole. You can go fuck yourself. It’ll be just like a regular Saturday night for you.”

She patted him on the shoulder as she walked past him, and the small crowd broke out laughing. The promoter, Charlie, met her halfway and offered her an envelope.

“Damn, girl. I knew you were good, but I have to admit, I didn’t expect that.” He rubbed the back of his neck.

Kat’s eyes darted to The Goatee.

“Don’t mind him. Thinks he’s hot shit, is all.”

“Nothing I’m not used to.” She chuckled and took the envelope stacked with her winnings. “Thanks, Charlie. Keep me in the loop, okay?”

“You got it, Kat.”

The Goatee shouted insults at her as she headed back to her car, making a point to look back at him only once, twiddling her fingers before closing the door. He went berserk.

When she fired the ignition, her car roared hello.

Oh, Sheila, she thought, trailing her fingers over the dash before throwing it into reverse.

Her car was her baby, a gift from her father at sixteen, one of the constants in her upside-down life.

Kat sped away, and as her heart slowed down, it flashed with guilt. She shouldn’t have raced. It was a stupid thing to do — stupid and dangerous.

But I’m so glad I did.

She’d covered her ass here and in Vegas. No one would find out where she was. We’re still safe.

The words ran on a loop in her mind enough times, she almost believed they were true.

Dillon pulled up to the curb outside MacLennan’s and cut the engine. The sign was a cheap shot at a stereotype — golden letters, a green clover, a leprechaun leaning on the M with his eyes flinty and brows angled in such a way that he seemed to say, Oy, boyo. Fancy a fight?

That sign was a familiar sight. When Dillon had first started fighting for money, this was the place they came to most often, though they hadn’t been to the bar in months. Brian liked to move the party after every fight, usually Irish pubs, citing the want to capitalize on Diamond Dillon’s heritage — not that the word meant overmuch to him. His parents had emigrated from Ireland before he was born. America was all he knew, and what his father displayed in regard to his heritage left him with less pride than Brian made him out to possess.

He stepped out of his car, the sound of his door closing loud over the muffled music floating to him from the pub. With his hands shoved in the pockets of his leather jacket, gray hoodie hanging out of the neck, collar flipped again the cold, he walked up to the door with Owen in his wake.

The night would be more punishment than party — that much, he knew. It was the same every time. He would show up hours after the fight, exhausted and nerves worn. Maybe if he were a drinker, it’d be easier to endure, but that was his father’s pastime. He’d inherited enough horrible traits without adding dirty fucking drunk to the list.

He would have much preferred to be at home, passed out, resting his body after all he’d put it through, but there was no way around the fact. The more he won, the bigger he got, the more people expected to see him outside the ring. Brian had said it was all about Dillon’s brand or some shit — if the people who bet on him got to actually hang out with him afterward, they’d be more likely to bet on him again.

But the attention was too much. As surprised and humbled as he was that people gave enough of a fuck about him to wish him well, the whole ordeal was a nightmare.

He didn’t do people. He didn’t do crowds. He didn’t do chitchat and idle conversation.

He did, however, do alone like a pro.

Dillon grabbed the brass handle and pulled open the door, sharing a fortifying look with his brother before stepping inside.

The sound of music and people hit him like a brick wall, and once the crowd saw him, they exploded into cheers. He tried to smile and ran a hand through his hair, wishing he could disappear, and the crowd before him parted.

Brian stepped through to greet him with a smile. “Took you long enough. Come on, this way.”

He turned, and Dillon followed him to the bar as people called his name. A few tried to hand him drinks, which he graciously declined. When they reached the long counter — all mahogany and brass — the three took seats just as a small pack of girls led by a bleached blonde pushed their way between him and his brother. It was Jessica, a groupie and general pain in his ass.

“Hey, Dillon. You were so good tonight,” she said salaciously, her glossy lips turning up in a smile as she batted her lashes at him. She squeezed in closer and laid a hand on his forearm.

“Thanks.” He moved his arm, angling away from her.

Her bottom lip popped out for a split second before she fixed her smile back on to try again, with feeling.

She leaned over the bar, cradling her breasts between her arms. “So, you gonna buy a girl a drink or what?”

Dillon’s gaze swept over the cleavage she’d so graciously placed on display with absolute indifference. “Brian’s in charge of rounds.”

Jessica’s cheeks flushed, her brows dropping with disappointment. One of her friends gave her a nudge, whispering something, and her smile found its way back, more determined than ever.

She rested her hand on his thigh and inched it up. “Aw, come on, Dillon. For old time’s sake?”

His jaw set. “What old times?” he asked before spinning away from her on his stool to jerk his chin at Brian. “Hey, Jessica wants a drink. Can you help her out with that?”

Brian snickered and rose, draping an arm over her shoulders to steer her away. “Yeah, come on, Jess. The bartender’s this way. What are you drinking?”

“But—”

Brian laughed as he kept her moving. “He’s not going anywhere.”

She didn’t argue. She did look over her shoulder at Dillon, blowing him up with her eyes, cronies on her heel.

Owen shook his head. “God, she never quits.”

“If I’d known she was crazy, I never would have hooked up with her.”

“Girl’s not just crazy. She’s queen of the asylum.” Owen leaned over the bar, glancing toward the bartenders, flagging a hand. “Damn, what’s it take to get a drink around here?”

Dillon turned to look in the direction Owen was, and when he saw her, he knew immediately — distantly but immediately — that he was in trouble.

She was leaning into a big metal cooler, her face hidden by a sheet of long inky-black hair, and when she stood, beers in hand, she flipped her hair over her shoulder with a snap.

He couldn’t look away any easier than he could speak Portuguese.

She met his eyes like she’d known he was there, like she’d been waiting for him forever, right there in a crowded dive bar in Brooklyn. Her eyes were almond-shaped and angled like a cat, intense and gray-green, lined with thick black lashes. He scanned her face, over the bridge of her long nose sprinkled with freckles that spread across the flushed apples of her cheeks. Her lips were full, rosy and parted, and his gaze lingered there for a heartbeat before snapping to her eyes again.

The noise in the bar was almost deafening, but they were still and quiet, two unmoving points in an ocean of people.

Someone bumped into him, and he blinked as the clock started again with a tick, breaking the connection. She seemed to shake herself before walking over.

Her eyes were on him the whole way, and his were fixed on her.

She tossed a couple of coasters in front of the brothers. “What can I get you?”

Owen cocked a smile with his eyes glued on Dillon. “Glenlivet, neat. Thanks.”

“And for you?” Her voice was smoke and fire; he could feel the heat from feet away.

“Just water,” he answered.

“Sure.” She turned to walk to the taps, glancing at him only once.

He didn’t miss it.

Owen laughed.

Dillon’s head swiveled to give his brother a look. “What?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all.” Owen smirked and turned back to the bartender as she approached with their drinks, setting them in front of their owners.

When Owen pulled out his wallet, she put her hands up.

“It all goes on Brian’s tab.”

Owen snorted. “Brian’s tab.”

She smiled and turned to leave, but Owen stopped her with a question.

“Hey, what’s your name?”

Confidence rolled off her in waves, and Dillon wondered what her story was, where she had come from, if she was human or goddess or mirage.

Her eyes were on Dillon as she answered his brother. “I’m Kat.”

“Hi, Kat. I’m Owen, and this here,” he slapped Dillon on the shoulder, “is Dillon, my big brother.”

She smiled again, lips together, eyes sharp and soft all at once. Dillon’s heart beat a little faster.

“Yeah, I heard,” she said. “Brian’s been talking you up for the last hour.”

Someone shouted to her from the other end of the bar.

“Let me know if you need anything,” she said casually, just another line of waitress script, before turning to the mob.

And Dillon watched her walk away without an honest clue what had hit him.

Kat blinked as she walked away, stunned.

The moment she’d turned to find Dillon looking at her with eyes crisp and cold and blue, she’d been so connected to him that she couldn’t look away. He’d held her captive like a snake charmer, drawing her in with power stronger than her will. He exuded control, strength, confidence that commanded her; she’d found herself helpless.

As much as she wanted to fall into the feeling, she found herself unnerved. The exchange set her on edge, noted most aggressively by a tingle that climbed up her spine. It was a warning.

Nothing good could come from a look like that.

She stole a glance over at him and found his eyes on her again, if they’d ever left her. His blond hair shone under the lights, the hard line of his jaw casting a shadow on his neck, and his lips formed a sweeping curve that was somehow stone and silk at once. The expression was fierce and intense, and an unwelcome flush blossomed on her cheeks.

Kat dropped her gaze back to the drink in front of her, brows knit as a string of curse words rolled through her head.

She had no time for a guy, never mind a guy like that. Because that guy was trouble. She knew that as well as she knew the time it took her car to redline in first gear or the size of her engine or the level of pressure her tires needed to grip pavement best.

The swinging door to the back of the bar opened, and Kat’s younger sister, Kiki, appeared with a smile on her face and her arms full of liquor bottles. A few people cheered when they saw her, and her smile flashed even brighter as she winked, shimmying her shoulders.

Kat laughed, shaking her head. “Here, let me help you.”

She grabbed a bottle of rum and vodka from Kiki’s arms, and the sisters turned to stock the bar.

Kiki’s black hair swung in a high ponytail, so long that the ends brushed the space between her shoulder blades, and the deep cut of her tight black T-shirt made her neck look a mile long. Part of making money tending bar was selling your assets, and Kiki was an unparalleled expert.

“Is the boxer guy here yet?” Kiki craned her neck to look down the bar.

“Yeah, over there.” Kat jerked her chin toward the brothers, shaking her head again when she saw that Owen’s mouth was hanging open like a trout as he got a good look at Kiki.

This was The Kiki Effect, as Kat liked to call it. Kiki was the dreamer, the optimist, the doe-eyed little pixie who people instinctively felt compelled to take care of.

Kat was the flip. She was the cynic, the pessimist, the hard-eyed viper who warned everyone away. It was just easier that way.

When Kiki saw Owen, her smile tilted, her eyes sparking with devilry.

“Body shots,” she said with a flick of her brow.

“Oh God,” Kat muttered.

Kiki picked up a bottle of tequila, a lime, and a shot glass on her way out from behind the bar. The crowd parted for her like the Red Sea, cheering as she slinked by, hips swaying — they knew her plan. This was not her first time at the rodeo, and it was always a good show.

Kat stayed behind the bar, following Kiki to the brothers. Dillon was still staring at Kat, and when their eyes locked again, that tingle zapped up her spine like an SOS.

Kiki came to a stop behind Dillon and tapped him on the shoulder, and when he blinked, the spell between them was broken.

He glanced over at his brother and swiveled to face Kiki.

“Congratulations on your win, Mr. Malloy. Complimentary body shot to celebrate?” Kiki held up the bottle of tequila and gave it a little shake, flashing her megawatt smile.

Dillon laughed, and it was a good laugh, an honest laugh. “I don’t drink, but my brother does.” He clapped the shoulder of Owen, who looked like he’d been struck by lightning. Or a frying pan.

Kiki turned her attention to Owen, and as she looked him over, her face morphed from determined to curious, her smile transforming from sultry to sweet.

”I didn’t catch your name,” she said, her voice tinged with wonder.

Owen straightened up, blinking at her. “I’m Owen.”

“I’m Kiki, and I want to know one thing.”

Her sexy smile was back, and he leaned toward her.

“Anything.”

“Are you ready for this?”

He smiled slowly, an inching of his lips on one side. “Probably not.”

Kiki laughed and wiggled her way between the brothers to pour the shot. Dillon backed out of the way to give her room, but Owen didn’t move, forcing her to brush against him, his eyes amused and lit with challenge now that he’d found his wits. His face was just inches from her ear, and Kat didn’t miss Kiki’s shallow breaths as she leaned into him just enough to telegraph her awareness of his body.

Kat frowned.

Trouble. Both brothers were trouble.

Every man’s eyes within twenty feet were on her when she stuck out her tongue, licked her thumb, and trailed the wet digit down her neck. She reached for the salt tray with her other hand and grabbed a pinch, lifting her chin to spread it down the wet path. And when she finally backed away, it was with a shot glass in one hand and a lime in the other, which she nestled in her cleavage.

With that, she held out the shot and smiled in invitation.

Owen stood — he was tall, much taller than Kat had expected — and took the drink from Kiki’s fingers. His deep brown eyes held hers, his lips inching into a smile as he stepped into her space, the tension between them crackling like electricity.

The entire bar might have been holding their breath.

Owen slipped his hand onto the curve of her neck, his thumb resting in the hollow behind her ear, and he lowered his lips to trail his tongue up the line of salt, pausing to close his lips against her skin. She leaned into his hand like it was keeping her upright, even when he broke away to knock back the shot.

He turned his focus back to her.

Kiki’s green eyes burned as his hand skimmed from her neck down her back, and he lowered his face to her breasts where the lime waited for him, hovering for just the span of a breath. And when he buried his lips in her breasts, a shiver racked through her that Kat could see from feet away.

When he stood again, the crowd broke into whistles and catcalls, and Owen looked down at Kiki for a long moment. Her eyes were on his mouth, her chin tilting and lips parting for a kiss. But Owen stepped back with a smile bordering on evil if it wasn’t so sweetly handsome. He took his seat again, leaving Kiki standing stupidly behind him in shock.

Kiki was not accustomed to being on the other side of that particular coin, and to see the marvel firsthand should have been entertaining. But it wasn’t. Not after what they’d been through with Eric. Not while they were on the run.

A breeze stirred in the bar, and Kat thought she smelled roses.

How strange, she thought.

Kiki’s posture shifted — her chin dropped, eyes on fire. She straightened up, took three steps, grabbed Owen’s arm, and spun him around.

She cupped his stunned face and pulled in a breath that drew their lips together with a fever that left everyone around sweating.

It didn’t look like a kiss. It looked like she was claiming him.

He wrapped his arms around her as she melted into him, her back arching and arms winding around his neck. Their bodies twisted together, the kiss deepening, and after a long, hot moment, she popped away, leaning in to whisper something in his ear before slinking away.

The crowd went crazy — with the exception of Kat and Dillon — as Kiki walked around the bar, leaving Owen sitting on his stool, a blinking fool.

Kat’s frown deepened. And when Dillon turned around, his expression matched hers.

Kiki floated over with lust-drunk eyes, and the crowd pressed up to the bar for drinks, leaving Kat no time to hound her sister about whatever that nonsense had been.

If it had just been a body shot, that would have been one thing. But the way she’d looked at Owen told Kat that was just the beginning. And if Kiki opened that door, the delicate safety they’d found could come crumbling down like a house of cards.

Dillon’s jaw ticked in an attempt to stop him from fuming in the direction of Owen, who was staring into his scotch with glassy eyes.

He had one trigger, one big red button, and it had Owen’s name on it. Every good thing Dillon had done in his life was to protect his brother, and that wouldn’t stop today. Because the way Owen had looked at Kiki was the kind of look that would get Owen hurt.

“That was some display,” Dillon said, trying not to sound bitchy. He’d failed.

“Hmm?” When Owen looked over at Dillon, his eyes were unfocused, pupils dilated.

“You look like you’ve been shot through the heart. Need a cold shower?”

“Did that really just happen?” Owen asked no one in particular.

“It did.”

“I’ve got to talk to her. I’ve got to get her number,” Owen mumbled, moving to stand.

Dillon’s voice dropped with his brow, stopping his brother with a hand on his arm. “Whoa, hold up. I don’t think you should pursue that.”

Owen turned to face Dillon with his face drawn. “Well, fortunately, I’m a fucking adult and can make my own decisions.”

“Come on.” A half-assed scoff escaped him. “You know I don’t mean it like that.”

“How exactly do you mean it?”

“What I mean,” Dillon tried to explain, “is that you get attached, and she’s not the kind of girl you want to get attached to.”

Owen’s frown deepened. “How the hell do you know?”

“Most girls don’t make out with random guys in bars. At least, not the kind of girl you take out for a steak dinner.” Dillon glanced at the girl in question, her cheeks pink as she tended to waiting customers. “Trust me. I know her type.”

“What’s your problem?” Owen asked on a defensive breath.

Dillon scrubbed a hand over his face, frustrated and edgy. His anger — the flickering flame that relentlessly burned in his chest — flared, snapping at his ribs from the inside. “I’m fucking tired, and I don’t want to be here. I think she’s gonna be a problem for you, and I think you need to leave her alone. She kissed you. So what?”

Owen looked hurt, which somehow aggravated Dillon even more, particularly when he realized he wasn’t communicating well or even moderately well. Words weren’t his thing. Actions were. And the only action that could get him out of the situation would be to grab Owen by the scruff of his neck and drag him out of the bar.

But, upon looking closer, he found he wasn’t mad at Owen at all. He was mad at that chick who had shoved her tongue down his throat.

So he redirected his anger in that direction.

“Hey, Kat,” he called — Kiki was out of earshot in the loud bar.

Kat smiled, but Dillon barely saw it. “What can I do for you?”

“Is that something she does often?” he shot with a jerk of his chin in Kiki’s direction, his face tight and hand clenched in his lap.

Her smile fell, her eyes hardening to match his own. “When the spirit moves her. What’s it to you?”

“I was just trying to talk some sense into my brother here. He’s the settle-down type, and, well, girls like her aren’t. Am I right?”

“Hey—” Owen tried to interject.

But Kat stiffened and folded her arms across her chest. “She’s actually my sister, so maybe you should watch your fucking mouth.”

Dillon shook his head. “Sorry,” he said, not at all sorry and not even pretending to be. “Just looking out for him.”

“Looks to me like he’s an adult who’s fully capable of making his own decisions, like licking my sister’s neck like a fucking lollipop.”

He bristled. “Well, she was the one with the fruit in her tits. She was asking for it; that’s my whole fucking point.”

“Jesus Christ, Dillon—” Owen started, but they wouldn’t stop.

Kat hung a hand on her hip, and her eyes lasered on Dillon’s like she would burn a hole through him if she could. “What the fuck is your problem? Don’t roll in here and insult me just because you’re some ‘roided-out motherfucker with anger issues and tiny balls.”

His anger fired like a fucking flamethrower. “You want to know my problem? My problem is that I don’t like your sister, and I don’t like her face-fucking my brother.”

At that, Kat leaned toward him, smiling as sweetly as a slit throat, saying cheerfully through her teeth, “Go fuck yourself, asshole.”

She turned on her heel and walked away, leaving him boiling on his stool for only a split second. And then he stood and stormed out with Owen on his heels, sputtering apologies over his shoulder.

The silence in the theater room was broken by an awkward clearing of a throat, and Hermes turned off the television.

“Well, it’s late,” he said with a plastic smile on his face. “Let the games begin and all that. Ice cream and popcorn are in the kitchen.”

The gods began to stand and move out, though with some trepidation, all of them eyeing Dita, who tried to keep her game face on.

It could have been worse. But not by much.

“You okay?” Perry asked from her side.

They hadn’t moved from their seats.

“Mmhmm.”

“No, but really.”

Dita took a breath and released it. “It’ll be fine. I’ve got Kiki and Owen,” she clipped.

Perry opened her mouth to argue just as Ares walked up. Her mouth snapped shut.

He stopped in front of her, and she tipped her chin to meet his eyes, shooting for defiance. But the look he gave her — one heavy with heat and lust and love and hatred — stopped her from doing much of anything.

Like the asshole he was, he knew he had her. His lips tilted into a smirk as he bent down, caging her with his hands on the armrests.

“You’re not ready for this, Dita.” His breath was sweet, hitting her face in puffs that pulled her toward him with the backdraft. “And when you lose, I know just what I’ll do with my prize.”

And then he disappeared, leaving her in a haze.

Perry watched her blink, her face twisting into a scowl. “Ugh, I fucking hate him.”

Dita looked off in the direction he’d gone, wishing she felt the same.

In the early hours of the morning, Kat sped through the streets of Brooklyn, dog-tired and dreaming of a hot shower and her feet between her sheets.

What a long fucking night, she thought, yawning while she waited for her garage door to open. The fighter’s party had raged on without the fighter’s presence. He wasn’t as important as he thought, which made her feel a little better. Not much, but a little.

She eased her car in and killed the engine, yawning again as she stepped out.

Kiki closed her door with a thump. “Stop yawning,” she said, the words stretched through a yawn of her own.

“Sorry.” Kat closed the garage door, and they walked out of the detached building and into the garden, trudging past the low lights along the landscaping against the fence.

Their father had spared no expense when he’d heard they were on their way from Vegas, buying them a completely ostentations brand new three-story, dual-master, completely ostentatious brownstone in Brooklyn Heights. He’d decked it out; everything was modern and expensive and way too much for Kat. He’d even hired a decorator, who had designed their rooms to suit their personalities. Kiki’s was all high-end, hip, and a little girlie while Kat’s was clean and simple and dark.

Kat had asked him not to do so much — she had money of her own and preferred to take care of herself. But her father was a control freak with way too much money, and spending it on his daughters was one of his favorite ways to get rid of it.

Kat unlocked the back door and walked in, clicking on the kitchen light as she dropped her bag by the stairs.

Kiki followed and closed the door behind her, leaning against it. “What a night.”

“I’ll say.” She reached into the cabinet for a glass. “So are you going to explain the whole thing with the body shot and groping and all?”

Kiki pulled out her ponytail and shook her hair loose with her fingers. “I don’t know.” Her voice was full of wonder, lips smiling, green eyes wide. “He took me by surprise.”

“I’d say you took him by surprise. That kiss … I mean, what the hell, Kiki?” Kat pushed her glass into the water dispenser.

Kiki lifted her foot to unlace her combat boot with a laugh on her lips. “I don’t know. God, when he slipped his hand into my neck into that spot— you know the spot, the one where a man’s hand fits so perfectly — I thought I was going to die right then and there. But when he kissed my neck, I almost climbed him like a tall, dark, and handsome ladder. And once he did the shot, he walked away like he’d been unaffected while I stood there, staring at his back.” She shook her head, boot largely forgotten, lost in the recollection. “Something came over me. That’s the only way I know to explain it. All I could think was Mine. I had to kiss him right then, just like I needed to breathe or my heart needed to beat. So I did.”

“That was crazy, Kiki,” she said, trying not to sound judgmental. “You should have heard his brother. What a fucking jackhole. He didn’t seem too keen on the prospect of you being in close proximity to Owen.” She took a drink before she accidentally let loose the details of what he’d said about Kiki.

“He doesn’t even know me.” Kiki pouted.

Kat leaned against the counter and stretched her neck. “It doesn’t matter anyway. It’s not like we’ll ever see them again.”

Kiki popped off her boot, dropping it with a thunk. “You don’t know that. Maybe we will,” she added hopefully.

Kat found herself scowling. “I don’t know how you could even consider seeing anyone after Eric. It’s way too soon.”

She stiffened, moving on to her other boot. “It’s not too soon. We’re starting over, right? Plus, just because I have a terrible track record doesn’t mean I can’t find a good guy, does it?” The other boot clunked to the floor in echo of the first.

“Saying you have a terrible track record is like saying Hannibal Lecter just hosted bad dinner parties.” Kat crossed her arms. “How do you even know he’s a good guy?”

She shrugged, starry-eyed. “I just have a feeling.”

“Because that’s served you so well in the past.”

“No comment.” Kiki wiggled her liberated toes and walked over to lean on the bar, changing the subject. “So what was the deal with Dillon? One minute you were eye-fucking and the next you turned into The Bickersons.”

Kat took another drink and set her glass on the counter. “He’s a prick, which is too bad because he’s super hot. Even with his face all cut up. In fact, that might have made him even hotter.”

Kiki giggled. “What did he do?”

She picked up her glass after all, moving to the sink to avoid Kiki’s eyes. “He just mouthed off, and it pissed me off.”

“Well,” Kiki said as she combed her fingers through her hair, “it doesn’t take a lot to piss you off.”

“True.”

“And you’ve kind of been on edge since we left Vegas.” She hastily added, “With good reason.”

“Also true.” Kat gave Kiki a pointed look.

Kiki didn’t see it. “I wish I’d gotten Owen’s number. His brother blew out of the bar with him before I got a chance.”

“Aw, did you get twat blocked?” Kat poked out her lip and pretended to wipe a tear away.

“You’re such a jerk.” She chuckled and rested her head in her hand. “Maybe they’ll come back.”

“I hope not.”

“I hope so,” Kiki said wistfully.

“I think you must be delirious from exhaustion. You should sleep.” Kat smoothed her sister’s hair when she walked by. “See you tomorrow, Kiki.”

“Night,” she called back.

But as Kat climbed the stairs, her thoughts were on the fighter and his brother, wondering if she’d see them again, hating the fact that a tiny part of her actually wanted to.

Dita stared at the wall, listening to her robot Pomeranian, Bisoux, snore like a teeny-tiny freight train.

Kat and Dillon’s first meeting hadn’t gone well.

She’d anticipated Dillon being prickly, but the level of venom between the two of them had been a surprise. Dita had played her hand and sent Kiki straight into Owen’s arms, and the move had backfired epically, forcing a wedge between Kat and Dillon, using their triggers against each other instead of in their favor.

This competition was going to be much harder than she’d thought.

Dillon was a classic Ares — angry, presumptuous, combative. Kat was his match, the controlled fire to manage his wild one, but Kat was just as suspicious as he was. The ace up her sleeve was Kiki and Owen; their love match had been the deciding factor in choosing Kat as her player. The two-for-one deal had been too good to pass by, and having the siblings together would force the players into each other’s proximity.

Dita could find at least one love match for anyone in their own city, provided that the city had more than a hundred thousand people. That statistic was part of the reason she didn’t have to work overly hard to win. The other part was that a real love match was nearly unstoppable. The attraction, the pull of their hearts to each other — it was one of the surest things in the universe.

So she played the game entirely on offense. Winning was just a matter of swatting away the other gods’ plays.

Dita flipped onto her back, careful not to disturb Bisoux, and stared up at the dark ceiling, her eyes straining to make out the lines of the patterned tiles. She wished for sleep and dreaded it. Night after night, she would find herself pacing the meadow in Elysium where she’d met Adonis for thousands of years. But he was gone. Not gone, she supposed, not in the permanent way. But he had refused her, rejected her with his silence.

Every night, she knew he wouldn’t come, yet every night, she would find herself hurt when he didn’t. Of course, she was angry too, not at all regretting the choice she’d made to free Daphne, the choice that had driven Adonis away. They’d never work things out if he wouldn’t speak to her, and part of her was so frustrated, she didn’t want to see him at all.

But she would go anyway, driven by the hope that they could somehow find their way back to each other, back to some semblance of normalcy.

Another unfortunate situation in which Dita found herself was that she’d been without sex since their fight.

One week. One stupid week, and she was pent-up and cagey. Before this, it had been years since she went more than a day or two without. No, decades. Her brows furrowed. She couldn’t even remember the last time she’d endured a drought.

Dita rolled over again and punched her pillow to fluff it.

Abstinence was not going to help her stay away from Ares. Slipping into bed with him would be easy. Too easy. And everyone knew you couldn’t get something for nothing; there was always a price.

Before Adonis, she had been with Ares for centuries, even loved him despite his flaws. She’d found she understood him, believed he could be more than he was, given time and a guide, which she was happy to provide. But she’d been wrong. People didn’t change, and neither did gods. Ares was unwaveringly Ares, and that fact would always remain.

After Adonis had died, she’d been suspicious of Ares, certain he’d played a part in the murder alongside Apollo. So suspicious in fact that she’d even used a token she’d won from Ares, a favor that could not be refused. He’d looked her dead in the eye and told her the same story he’d told her a hundred times — he’d had nothing to do with Adonis’s death.

It had never sat right with her. Ares was smugger than ever, which was a feat in and of itself. But she had no proof, so she accepted Apollo’s confession. It was just easier, nice and tidy and neat, and she didn’t have to think about what it would mean if Ares had been involved. Because that betrayal would shake the heavens.

But she never put her full and total trust in him again. When they competed, she found it impossible to keep her distance. Their equal desire to win, to own, was nothing but fuel to their explosive relationship. Ares was determined; he knew exactly what he wanted, and would do anything to get it.

This trait was the one she found the most irresistible.

Dita didn’t know if she could withstand him. The truth was that, even though she’d stayed away from him, she always found herself missing him. They had been companions for so long. They had lived through war and peace, watched empires rise and fall. They had loved, they had fought, and they had lost.

And now they would join once again, a thought that should bring her fear but sent another feeling through her, one far more dangerous.

Hope.

Ares couldn’t sleep.

He kicked off his sheets and rolled over again to stretch out onto his back. Moonlight streamed in through his windows, painting the room in shades of blue, and he sighed, staring at his ceiling.

He’d replayed Kat and Dillon’s meeting over and over, unsure of how to handle the game.

Dillon had been an easy choice, but Ares agonized over the decision all the same. It boiled down to the fact that Ares had deep roots in the human, who had easy triggers, triggers that would set him on fire with little to no effort. Dillon’s father, Jimmy, was the same way. Worse. Like father, like son. The drunken Irishman was a rageaholic who found joy in only two things in life: whiskey and beating the shit out of anyone who dared to get in his way.

Jimmy had been one of Ares’s favorite pets and was one of the reasons he was so attached to Dillon.

Dillon had been fighting since his mother died — fighting his father, the world, his true nature — but he’d never overcome. Instead, he pretended like he had his anger under control, isolating himself from the world, fighting in the ring as an outlet for the fury inside.

But the God of War knew better.

The most fortuitous bonus in Dita’s choice was Eric, Kiki’s ex-boyfriend. Eric was the move. But Ares would have to tread lightly. If he pulled the trigger on Eric, everything would go south. The players could be killed. Dita would go ballistic. Dita would be hurt.

And if he hurt her, really hurt her, it would jeopardize everything he’d built. And he had grand plans.

With Adonis out of the picture entirely, for the time being at least, Ares had a window of opportunity and he would take full advantage.

He’d waited long enough to win her back. And he would wait no longer.