“Come on, Dillon. Please?”

Dillon didn’t look up from his hands as he chopped an onion on the wooden cutting board. “You’re whining.”

Owen sat across from him on a barstool with his elbows on the surface of the kitchen island and a determined edge to his voice. “Do I ever ask you to go out?”

He kept his eyes on the onion. “No.”

“Right. So you should do me a solid and come with me.”

“I don’t want to go to a bar, and I definitely don’t want to go to that bar.”

“Indulge me.”

Dillon set the knife down and looked squarely at his brother. “You really think my opinion has changed since last night? She’s not the settle-down type, and her sister hates me. Why would I walk back into that nightmare, and why do you think I’d be interested in watching you jump into a volcano?”

Owen’s eyes were deep and sincere. “I have a feeling about Kiki, and you don’t even know anything about her.”

“Neither do you.”

“So maybe she’s not the settle-down type. Maybe she hasn’t met the right guy yet.”

Dillon tossed the onions into a pan, and they hissed with a satisfying sizzle as they slid across the surface. “Famous last words.”

Owen frowned. “I can’t go by myself. I’ll look desperate.”

“You are desperate.” Dillon picked up a bell pepper, sliced the top off, and reached in to pull out the seeds, effectively gutting it.

“Am not. You saw her. How could I not go after after … that?”

“Easy. You just don’t.”

“Well, what about Kiki’s sister? I thought you were into her, but out of nowhere you were laying into her for no reason.”

Dillon sliced the pepper into long strips, exhaling loudly through his nose. “Talking to her was about as fun as licking a sheet of sandpaper.”

“I dunno. Seems she made an impression. You should have seen the look on your face when you saw her.” One corner of Owen’s mouth rose as Dillon’s brows dropped.

“Yeah, well, you should have seen the look on your face when Kiki stuck her tongue down your esophagus.” He cut the pepper with more force than was entirely necessary, and the blade clicked on the wooden cutting board with an annoyed pop, pop, pop.

“Don’t change the subject. Why’d you go off on her?”

Dillon huffed and eyeballed his brother again. “I know you better than anyone, and I know her type. Have you met Jessica? You can’t get attached to girls like that; they’ll bleed you dry.”

“You don’t know her. And what does that have to do with you picking a fight with Kat? I mean, you insulted Kiki, flat-out and unapologetically. What if it had been the other way around? What if she — or anybody for that matter — had insulted me?”

Dillon scowled. “I would have been pissed. And anyway, she did insult you.”

“Wait.” Owen leaned on the island, his tone colored with challenge. “Did you lose it on Kat because I was interested in Kiki?”

“No,” Dillon lied. “I was tired and flew off the handle, and so did she.” He tossed the vegetables into the pan, not liking the turn the conversation had taken. “Kiki’s bad for you. I don’t get why you can’t see it.”

“You are so full of shit.” Owen shook his head. “Jesus, Dillon. Why would you take that out on her?”

Because she was there. Because she pushed back. “I’m trying to help you. I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“Well, I never asked for your help. You know, I don’t need you to protect me anymore. I’m capable of handling failure on my own. So maybe, just maybe, you should give me a fucking inch to breathe.”

Silence fell over the brothers. Owen’s eyes were on Dillon, and Dillon’s were on the pan.

Owen was right. Not only had Dillon been unreasonably controlling, but he’d also insulted someone who had nothing to do with whatever the bullshit du jour was in Dillon’s head.

He was wrong, as much as he hated it. He shouldn’t have bulldogged Kat. He shouldn’t have said what he had about Kiki. He shouldn’t have presumed. He shouldn’t have reacted.

But the hang-up was this:

Dillon was a wild animal behind a porcelain mask of a man. It took almost nothing to shatter the facade, to expose the beast underneath with gnashing teeth and a roar that ripped from the pads of his feet and past razor-sharp teeth. He had been trained to suspect and taught to bite back.

He was built for solitude.

Every good thing he’d done in his life, he’d done for Owen. Sometimes, that meant sabotaging what Owen wanted, and Dillon would find ways to justify his actions. Sometimes it happened subconsciously. But that didn’t make it right.

Owen broke the silence. “Can you get over yourself and come with me tonight?”

“Take Brian,” Dillon answered, not ready to concede. Instead, he pushed the simmering vegetables around the skillet, still holding out hope that the whole subject would just disappear and they could get back to their routine.

“Brian’s busy. And I want you to understand something.” He paused until Dillon met his eyes. “I will be seeing her again. I will be pursuing her, with or without your blessing. I will go there tonight with or without your company, though I’d rather it be with you. Maybe she’ll turn me down. Maybe I’ll see her again tomorrow and the next day and the day after that. You say you’ve got my back. Well, I’m calling you on that. Have my back. Come with me tonight and help me by apologizing to Kat. You owe her that.”

Dillon considered it for a moment, the only sound between them the sizzling from the pan.

“Do I have to beg?” Owen asked.

“I thought that was what you were doing.” He nudged the vegetables again, feigning indifference.

Owen sighed, shoulders sloping, sad eyes on his hands, and in the end, that was Dillon’s breaking point.

“Fine. But we’re not staying out late.”

Owen shot up straight with a smile that threatened to split his face open. Dillon caught a flash of Owen as a child and found himself smiling back.

“Thanks, Dillon. I mean it.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Dillon waved him off.

Discomfort niggled at him, but he waved that off too. He’d have to apologize. He’d have to watch Owen pursue someone he didn’t approve of. And he’d do it. Because the real truth was, sometimes taking care of Owen meant letting him make his own choices in pursuit of happiness, whether he agreed or not. Owen deserved happiness.

He only wished he did, too.

A cozy fire crackled in Dita’s library fireplace, and she readjusted herself again on the couch, flipping onto her stomach to prop her romance novel on the arm, wondering how long she had before she was uncomfortable again. She settled in, flipping the page. There had already been some sensual hand-brushing and one blatant waist-groping as the hero helped the heroine into her carriage, and an engagement was imminent.

The elevator dinged from the other room, and when she stretched to look over the back of the couch, she rolled her eyes. Ares sauntered in, tall and dark and magnetic, eyes set to dominate. Or annoy. Or annoyingly dominate.

“What do you want?” She turned back to her book, pretending to be bored while her heart betrayed her.

Ares walked around the couch, lifted her feet with his big hands, and sat where they had been so comfortably resting. “Good to see you, too.”

Dita huffed, snapping her book closed. “Did you need something, or did you just come in here to be an asshole?” She sat up, putting her back against the arm where her book had been and folding her arms across her chest.

“Kat’s a real piece of work.”

She rolled her eyes again and set her book on the end table. “So we’re gonna do this?”

He shrugged. “I’m just saying. I think it’s funny that you chose someone just as angry as he is.”

Dita let out a single laugh. “Please. She’s got issues, but she’s got a handle on her shit. Dillon barely has a grip.”

“Apples and oranges.”

“All the more reason for you to be more concerned than you seem to be.”

His head cocked, his eyes hot and hard and glinting. “You’re so sure you’re going to win. But you underestimate me. You always do.”

Her heart ticked faster. “You don’t exactly have the best track record.”

His lips — they were so full and wide, the slope of them so familiar. For a thousand years she’d stared at those lips, kissed them, lived for the shape they made when they whispered her name.

Now they lifted on one side in a smirk that seemed playful, but his eyes told a different story, as did his voice, a low rumble that sent the hairs on her arms trembling.

“Don’t count me out. Dillon’s rage is so deep, it’s genetic. And at the heart of his hatred is me.”

“Dillon wouldn’t be the first bag of dicks I’d cured of you.” Her gaze hardened — all part of the game. Inside she feared him, wanted him, loved him. But she’d hide it from him with everything she had.

If he knew the truth of her feelings, he’d exploit it. And if he did that, she wouldn’t stand a chance. She’d fall into him and never resurface.

He laughed. “Dillon can’t be cured.”

“Maybe not. But I might have found his antidote.”

“True love conquers all, does it?” he mocked.

“Why do you always do that?” She bristled, and his smile faded.

“What? Point out the flaw in your grand design? Because true love does not equate to happiness. You and I are living proof.”

A warm ache spread through her ribcage.

Her voice was still, low. “Ares, don’t.”

“Don’t what?” Hurt flashed across his face, all pretense of levity gone. “Tell you I want you? That I need you? You throw me away so easily.”

“Please,” she whispered a warning that meant little.

“You were mine, and then you weren’t. It was you who decided. You left me, and now I have to wait for scraps, like a dog, when I should feast.”

He reached for her legs, grabbing them, pulling them to haul her into his lap, and she was so surprised, she didn’t even consider stopping him.

She rested her hands on his chest, feeling the steady drumming of his heart against her palms. “It’s not so simple.”

“It’s exactly that simple. You’ve been abandoned. But I am here.” His fingers brushed her cheek, cupped her jaw. “I’m alive.” His eyes searched hers. “I am yours, as I have always been.” And when he tilted his face, when he spoke again, her heart opened up; he had always held the key. “Are you mine again?”

Dim, golden firelight shone on him, the angles of his face casting deep shadows over the planes, the dark swallowing the light to hide his features, but she could make out every detail. She would know it in pitch-black; she knew it so well.

And in that moment, she knew the answer. She was his whether she liked it or not. She couldn’t deny him; she never could, especially not when he showed the glimmer of what she wished for, what she’d always wanted from him. When he opened up his heart, she couldn’t refuse.

So she whispered the only answer, a single word. “Yes.”

He pulled in a breath that pulled her lips to his, and they met with a shock that shot down her spine to her fingertips to her toes, every part of her awakened.

It was the memory of tens of thousands of nights, of kisses in the moonlight, of promises made and broken.

He was the hope that had failed, the wish for a life she would never have. Because Ares could give her his heart but not without taking hers captive. And it would never again see the light of day.

She breathed him in, dizzy, frenzied, like she hadn’t breathed in a hundred years. Because she’d forgotten just how good it was, how right he felt, even if it was an illusion.

His arms wound around her, his fingers pressing into her flesh, his mouth opening wider. Hers matched, her head tilting so she could search deeper, as if answers were hidden there in the darkness of his body. She moved to straddle him, her fingers against his jaw as his trailed to her hips, flexing, holding her against him, the hardness of him pressing against the center of her.

Ares broke the kiss to move his lips down her neck, his breath hot against her skin. His hands roamed her body — her neck, her breasts, her ribs, her ass — hands that were strong and deft, hands that knew each inch of her skin. They were hands that knew how to get what they wanted.

And they wanted her.

He grabbed her by the waist and tossed her onto the couch, climbing up to kiss her again. The weight of his hips pinned her down, hips that rolled with just enough pressure in just the right spot. When he pulled away, she opened her heavy lids to find him watching her with eyes burning hot enough to singe. And she reached up to trace the line of his jaw, to slip her hand into his hair.

When his eyes fluttered closed, her heart fluttered open.

With the turn of his head and his hand circling her wrist, he pressed a kiss to her palm before lowering his lips to hers for a kiss, one softer, deeper.

The air thinned, her head light, her hips wild with need.

His hand slipped between them, popping the button of her jeans, and when he backed away, it was to kneel between her legs and tug her pants off.

She watched him watching her, his eyes moving up the line of her long white legs to the small triangle of black lace where they met and up, up her ribs, her breasts, to her face. And then he stood, his eyes locked on hers, his chest rising and falling with breaths too deep.

His shadow danced over her with the flickering flames, his features cast in darkness as he reached between his shoulder blades to grip his shirt and tug it off. She knew every curve of his body, of his broad shoulders and chest, the lines angling and sweeping down to his narrow waist, the swell of his ass as he dropped his pants and stepped out of them.

He was a silhouette of a god, of man, of war, of will and power, towering over her, aiming to take her.

And so he did. And so she was helpless against him.

His eyes held hers as he knelt at the foot of the couch, his hands finding her calves, sliding up to her knees to spread them. And when he lowered his lips, they were to kiss the inside of her snowy thigh, the contact sending a shock straight to her center. Higher he kissed, higher his hands climbed until they gripped her hips, and he shifted his shoulders to press against the backs of her thighs to open her up.

He dragged his lips across the skin at the bend of her thigh, then his tongue — she flexed her legs, pulling him closer. His breath was hot through the thin fabric, and then those lips were against her core. And when the wet heat of his mouth closed over the aching center of her, her lungs shot open, filling them so quickly, they burned from the force.

His fingers hooked in the waist of her panties and squeezed until it was taut, sucking and licking her through the lace. The arch of her neck stretched longer as her chin tilted to the ceiling, her mind wholly focused on the point where their bodies connected, barely registering the rip and tug when he shredded the lace with a moan that sent her thighs trembling.

And then she was exposed.

He buried his face in her, his tongue and lips working. One hand slipped between her legs. The other roamed up, lifting her shirt, cupping her breast, thumbing her tight nipple through the delicate lace of her bra, and she watched him down the length of her body while he worked her, pressing and sucking and teasing his way in.

The faster her heart thumped, the faster he worked. The deeper he went, the harder he spurred her until her body clenched around his fingers inside of her, then again with a pulse and a whimper. Before she could come, he was gone.

Her eyes were closed, though she didn’t remember closing them, and when she blinked them open, confused, it was to the sight of his face as he brought his lips to hers, pressing his crown against the slickness of her. He flexed hard, not stopping until he hit the end of her with a jolt.

His rumbling moan echoed in her mouth, his trembling arms bracketing her face. But he held still, his breath puffing against her cheek and his tongue sliding against hers, reaching into her. He filled her every way he could, and when he rocked his hips, when he left her empty and filled her up, what little composure she had was lost. Another pump of his hips had her legs winding around his waist. And then, when he slammed into her again, she came unraveled, her body letting go with a hot pulse that matched her racing heartbeat.

He was right behind her, her name on his lips — the old name, the first name, the name in the language of her birth and beginning.

And just like that, they were together again. Together after so long apart.

He collapsed on her, buried his face in her neck, laid soft kisses down her neck and between her breasts. And then he held her, resting his cheek on the swell that rose and fell to the rhythm of her heavy breath. Her heart thumped against his ear, her nerves on fire and fingers in his hair as she wondered just how badly she’d regret the moment. Because it was only the beginning, and it would end in pain.

It always did.

The bar was nearly empty, and Kat’s shift had been long, made longer by the slow ticking of the clock. It was only nine thirty, the bar closed at two, and she’d been looking at the clock on the wall every three minutes for the last half hour.

None of this inspired hope that things would pick up. So she picked up her towel and pushed it across the glossy surface of the bar for the fortieth time that night.

The door of the bar opened, and Kat straightened up with a smile, happy at the potential of purpose. Until she saw who was walking in.

Owen walked in first, tall and lean and dark. His deep brown eyes locked on Kiki the second he passed the threshold, and Kiki turned to the sound, her gossip magazine forgotten and her smile beaming like a ray of sunshine.

Warning bells rang, amplifying when Dillon stepped out from behind his brother.

His jaw was set, his blond hair mussed and eyes steely; even from across the room, she could feel the icy-hot weight of them pinning her down. The collar of his leather jacket was flipped, his shoulders wide, hands in his pockets, drawing her attention to his narrow waist.

He was beautiful and dangerous, angry and hard. Strong. Controlled. A time bomb ticking in the silence.

She knew because she was made of the same mettle, and they assessed each other, recognizing that commonality with cold calculation.

Kat realized her hand had stopped moving and dropped her eyes, scrubbing the bar a little harder, adrenaline pumping as she prepared for another fight. If the night before had been any indication, she was in for one.

The city was new, but her life was the same. Because her life had been shaped by darkness inherited from her father. Kiki had been granted the life of Barbies and ponies and daydreams. Kat had been given the life of racing and guns and reality. Her only comfort in her life was that Kiki had escaped it. Kat’s world was lonely and barren, with the desire to prove herself to the world, to her father, to her sister, overshadowing all else.

Kat’s life was a fight, and a change of scenery wouldn’t change that fact.

Kiki closed her magazine and stood, walking toward him like she was caught in a trance, and Owen matched her pace, meeting her in the middle of the room.

They stared at each other in wonder for a moment before she finally spoke.

“I didn’t think I’d ever see you again.”

His smile — why did he have to have such a nice smile? — lifted on one side. “Surprise.”

“You left last night before I could give you this.” Kiki pulled out a scrap of paper that had been folded, refolded, and folded again until it was soft.

“This just so happens to be what I came here to get,” he said.

Kiki blushed.

Kat worried.

Dillon sat.

Kat turned her attention to him, not realizing he’d approached — her focus had been entirely on the potential train wreck her sister was heading for. And now he sat across from her with a heavy brow and eyes like the center of a flame. She bolstered her defenses and locked her face down.

“You drinking?” she snapped, caged and stuck and obligated.

“Just water.”

She said nothing, just grabbed a glass and tossed a scoop of ice into it, scowling at it as she mashed the big water button on the soda gun and waited in awkward silence for it to fill.

“I …” Dillon cleared his throat and leaned on the bar. “Listen, I think we got off on the wrong foot last night.”

He paused. She ignored him.

“I shouldn’t have been an asshole,” he said with only a tinge of defense in his voice. “It’s just that I’m … I worry about Owen, and sometimes that ends with me butting in where I shouldn’t.”

Kat didn’t look up. “I’m not sure what that has to do with me.”

“Nothing. I’m just saying …” He seemed to struggle to find the words. “Sometimes I take my own shit out on whoever’s available, and last night, that was you. I don’t do people or crowds or even this. I’m not good at it. Never have been. I do much more effective talking with these.” He held up his fists in display, all scuffed up and bruised and scarred.

She almost accepted his almost apology, finally meeting his eyes as she handed him his water. “I get that.”

“I just … look. I don’t want him to get hurt. And don’t take this wrong, but your sister seems like a … free spirit?”

At that, she laughed. “That’s a fair statement. Kiki’s been through more boys than the Cub Scouts.”

“That’s not really reassuring.” He rubbed the back of his neck with a ghost of a smile on his lips.

“I guess it wouldn’t be. But between you and me, I’m on your side. Kiki … she’s been through a lot. Hazards of having terrible taste in men. She’s got a kind heart, a big heart that was made to love, but she doesn’t see the warning signs until it’s too late.”

She glanced over at her sister and Owen. He sat on a barstool, she was behind the bar, and the two of them were leaning toward each other with the goofiest, sweetest smiles on their faces. Kiki preferred big, meaty alphas, so to see her with Owen — who had a charming, honest, easy way about him — gave Kat hope. A flicker of approval passed through her, but with her better judgment, she waved it away.

“But,” she started, still watching them, “Owen doesn’t seem like a creep, which is encouraging.” Her eyes darted to Dillon. “Wait, is he a creep?” she joked.

“No,” he said on a laugh. “He’s the exact opposite of a creep. More like a Great Dane puppy.”

“Well, that’s a relief.”

Dillon raised one brow, jerking a chin at their siblings. “Not like we could stop them anyway.”

She followed his gaze and sighed, wishing Kiki and Owen met six months from now. As much as she wanted Kiki’s happiness, Kat wanted her safety even more desperately. And they weren’t safe. Not yet.

When she turned back to Dillon, she found herself feeling a little lighter. “So, what do you do besides beat the shit out of people?”

He laughed — he had a nice laugh too, one that made her feel warm, one that made her smile back. It was a genetic thing, she supposed.

“Can we at least say I beat the shit out of willing people?”

“Sure, I’ll give you that.”

“I run a boxing gym with Brian. Well, he runs it. I just fund it and use it whenever I want.”

“So an investment then?”

“It sounds so grown-up when you say it that way,” he said on a chuckle.

He took a drink of his water, settling the silence between them, which was far more companionable than it had been the first time.

“So,” Dillon started, “what do you do besides sling drinks and watch your sister get licked by strangers?”

Kat paused, defensive anger blowing over her at the near insult to her sister. But his body was relaxed, his tone playful. He wasn’t trying to be a dick. It just seemed that he couldn’t help himself.

Of course, the answer to her question was race, and the word was on the tip of her tongue when suspicion crept over her at the errant thought that he could be a mole, a spy. Could he know who she was? Could he know Eric somehow? It seemed unlikely, but scenarios flashed through her mind. Dillon telling someone, Eric finding them. And if Eric found them, one of them wouldn’t walk away with a heartbeat.

So she toed the line. “I’m into cars. Classic muscle.”

Something changed in him — respect, maybe. “Me too,” he said with his eyes full of approval and questions. “What do you drive?”

“A ’69 Camaro.”

He nodded, smiling. “I have a ’71 GTO. What’s the horsepower?”

“Nine hundred horses.”

“Holy shit,” he breathed, whistling.

She laughed and stood up a little straighter, more than comfortable with the topic of her baby. “She’s got a twin turbo 57-cubic-inch crate engine, a 10.5-inch dual-disc clutch, and a modded Viper transmission. You?”

Dillon shook his head, running a hand across the stubble on his jaw. “She’s running a Judge with a 400-cubic-inch small block V-8.”

“Modded?”

“A little. Nothing crazy.” His brow quirked. “I wouldn’t have pegged you for a muscle-car kind of chick.”

“No one does.” Her voice was harder than she’d intended. “Ever race?”

“From time to time. You?”

She nodded. “Quarter mile.”

His face hardened. “For money?”

Hers mirrored his, her tone sarcastic and dry. “Why? Morally opposed to illegal betting?”

“I’m just wondering how the hell a girl like you gets into illegal racing.”

And that hit the hair trigger, shooting her straight into defense. “The fuck is that supposed to mean — a girl like me?”

“I’m not trying to pick a fight with you,” he snapped. “You’re so fucking touchy, Christ.”

“I’m just curious as to what kind of girl you think I am,” she popped back. “And maybe I wouldn’t be so fucking touchy if you weren’t an arrogant prick.” Her hands rested on her hips, body tense, adrenaline zipping, not at all surprised she’d ended up here after all.

Dillon watched her from across the bar, fuming. He was trying to apologize, trying to make nice. And for a minute, he’d succeeded.

That moment was long fucking gone.

Anger and suspicion rolled off her, feeding his own. He had been thinking that she was the kind of girl who seemed too beautiful, too smart to get mixed up with thugs and douchebags who ruled that world, but his hackles were up, and so were hers as they growled at each other, ready to fight.

But Dillon was always ready to fight, and if Kat was the same, they’d never finish a conversation. He didn’t even want to — if she wasn’t willing to try, neither was he. She could be as gorgeous and intriguing as she wanted.

The heat cranked higher on his anger until it bubbled up and over, rolling through him with a steaming hiss. He shook his head with disdain and disgust that was far less honest than it felt.

It was his ego that was bruised. And so he showed his teeth and took a bite out of hers.

“You know, it actually makes a lot of sense,” he said, the words dripping with contempt. “I’m sure bitches are right at home in the racing circuit.”

Her jaw clenched, eyes glinting. “You go from zero to cocksucker in about three-point-two. Kiss your mother with that mouth?”

“She’s dead, so no,” he spat.

She blinked, but he kept going, standing to rest his palms on the bar, leaning under the light to tear her down.

“I don’t think we’re going to be friends, Kat.” He said her name like it physically pained him.

“Your fault,” she shot with a jab of her finger. “Get the fuck over yourself.”

She turned to go, but he didn’t want her to walk away, didn’t want her to have the last word. No, he had to say more, his mouth on autopilot.

“You think you’re so hard, think you’re such a fucking badass. I can see it all over you. Think you get how the world works because you listen to Nirvana and wear black nail polish and your daddy bought you a pair of Docs at the mall. But I’d be willing to bet you don’t know shit. Not about the real shit.”

She whipped around, enraged. “You don’t even fucking know me. You have no idea who you’re fucking with.”

He laughed, the sound dry and cruel. “Why don’t you put your money where your mouth is? Because I’m dead fucking certain I could beat you on a quarter mile.” The minute it left his mouth, he knew not only that it was a mistake, but it was a lie.

Bitter laughter rang in his hot ears as she leaned across the bar and into his face. “Oh, you think so? Let me guess. You’re thinking, Surely, this little girl couldn’t beat me with my great big dick and my big bad car. Well, guess what, asshole? You’re on.”

She pushed away and tossed her towel in a bus bin, saying as she passed her sister, “I’m going to take inventory. You can handle all of this, right?” She motioned to Dillon, meeting his glare with eyes like razor blades. “I’ll see you on the track.”

And with those parting words, she turned on her heel and stormed into the back room, leaving him at the bar, his nostrils flaring and anger blazing like a bonfire.

Kiki’s brows rose at her sister, who blew past with a whoosh of hot, angry air, and she turned to Owen, who had been shocked silent.

Dillon stalked over, his body so tight, she wondered if he’d snap if any of them made a wrong move.

He didn’t look at her. He was too busy staring a burning hole in Owen. “I’m out.”

Owen’s brows knit together, and he nodded once. “I’ll call a cab or Uber or something.”

They shared a silent moment before Dillon answered with a nod of his own and turned to leave the bar just as suddenly as he’d entered it.

Owen sighed, his brown eyes soft and sad and deep. “That went really well.”

She glanced over her shoulder at the door still swinging on the hinges from the force of Kat’s exit. “Yeah, well, Kat doesn’t often find men she can get along with, but it’s rare to see her break out the honey badger so eagerly.”

He shook his head. “I’m really sorry. He’s … I don’t know. I’ll find out what happened, see if I can get to the bottom of it.”

“Me too. Kat’s not super trusting, and she’s got that mouth on her.”

He laughed.

“She talks a lot of shit because a lot of shit gets talked to her.”

“What were they talking about racing for?”

Kiki tucked her long hair behind her ear and rested her chin in her palm. “She’s been racing for a long time, since she was practically a kid.”

He looked confused. “That’s kind of an extreme hobby.”

“My dad is really into cars and taught her how to drive, how to race. It was something they shared, something I never quite understood. I was more interested in getting into my mom’s makeup than getting dirty with engine grease,” she said with a laugh.

His wide lips smiled, and she scanned his handsome face again. He was so nice, so easy. Kind. She felt like she could trust him, which was dangerous.

She’d made that mistake before. Her instinct wasn’t to be relied on, not like Kat’s was. But this was different. He was different, though she didn’t know how or why. It was just something she knew, like the sky being blue or sunshine being warm.

Kiki sighed. “Anyway, it’s mostly men she races, and they don’t take her seriously, not until they know her and see her in action. Then they know better. Then they can see just how incredible she is. But by then, it’s usually too late. Once she’s made up her mind, it’s hard to come back from that.”

“I can see that,” he said with a nod.

“So that’s probably the big reason she popped off.”

“Aside from my brother’s mouth.”

She chuckled. “Yes, aside from that. But …” Kiki paused, nibbling her bottom lip. “Well, Kat’s a little protective of me. Actually,” she added, “a lot protective of me. I don’t have a great track record, and the last relationship I was in didn’t end well. She doesn’t think I should be seeing someone.”

“I’m sorry.”

His eyes were bottomless, velvety brown, and she found herself drowning in them.

“Thanks, but it’s over now. She’s just a little paranoid.”

“I get that; so is Dillon. He wasn’t thrilled about coming tonight. I think he sensed you didn’t have the best track record,” he joked, the corner of his mouth pulling into a smile.

“I wonder what set them off though?”

Owen picked at the napkin under his scotch. “Sounds like we might have set them off.”

She sighed again. “Did you see the way they looked at each other before their big mouths ruined it all?”

“I did. It was strange. I’ve never seen him react like that. Like he’d been struck. Not that he doesn’t have girls around. He’s got groupies, for God’s sake, but none of them have ever been what one would consider a girlfriend. And he’s never looked at any of them that way.”

Kiki’s brows rose. “He’s never had a girlfriend? That’s kind of weird, Owen.”

He laughed softly, but his eyes were sad. “I guess it is a little. But there’s a good reason. Our dad … well, let’s put it like this. Dillon learned to fight at a very young age.”

“Do you mean he …” She didn’t want to say it, didn’t want to be right.

“I mean that he shouldered the weight of our father’s drunken Irish rage after our mother died. As in, Ye steal me lucky charms, and I’ll box yer ears, ye feck.” Owen’s voice lilted musically, but his face was sad. “Between Dillon’s own issues and what our dad did to our mom, I think he’s afraid of himself, afraid to let himself go. He fights to keep himself in check. It’s his job, and it’s his medicine.”

“Worst medicine ever—getting punched in the face.”

Owen laughed, and Kiki smiled wistfully as she traced the lines of his face with her eyes.

He paused, smiling back. “Go out with me, Kiki.”

A flush crept across her cheeks. “What do you have in mind?”

Owen looked into her eyes, leaning in. “Does it matter?”

And she laughed, angling toward him. “Not at all.”

The door to the stockroom hit the wall with a smack when Kat pushed it open, and she stormed into the narrow room lined with shelves of liquor bottles, pacing and fuming.

That fucking jerk. That jerk-ass jerk with his jerk face and bad attitude. She was so sick of men and their egos, their big, stupid, jerkface egos.

A string of expletives ran through her head as she paced the length of the room, wishing she could throw something.

The good guys didn’t run in her circles, guys like Owen. Of course, guys like Owen wanted nothing to do with her. Her edge was too sharp, too hard. She was a hazard, and men saw it from a mile away. They wanted girls like Kiki, soft and sweet and smiling.

Instead, Kat ended up around guys with something to prove. But then again, she had something to prove too. Maybe that was the problem.

And tonight, that fucker had come back and picked a fight and challenged her to a race.

He had no clue. But he was about to.

Kat sat down on a stack of beer cases, furious and frustrated. A bucket of bottle caps sat on the shelf next to her, and she slipped a hand in, wiggling her fingers to produce a gratifying rattle. She pulled out a bottle cap and flipped it over in her hand.

Her temporary acceptance of Dillon’s pseudo apology had passed, leaving her impossibly angry. With everything she and Kiki had just been through, Kat didn’t know how her sister could even consider dating someone. It was completely irrational. Irresponsible.

It was selfish. Kiki wouldn’t be the one to deal with the repercussions if Eric found them. Kiki wasn’t thinking about what would happen to any man who was with her when it came time to pay her dues.

Kat would.

* * *

It was late that night, the Las Vegas desert evening cool as Kat drove home from her bartending gig with the windows down and her hair whipping around her. She was exhausted, ready for her pillow and the long hours of silence that would carry her off to sleep.

Her lids were heavy. It was almost three in the morning, the neighborhood still and quiet as she pulled into her driveway and cut the engine with a sigh.

A scream ripped through the silence, and adrenaline shot through her like a bullet.

Kiki.

Kat reached under her seat for her gun and threw open the door, wide awake as she ran toward the house. When she pushed the front door open, every muscle in her body flexed, her arm rising on instinct to point the barrel of her Sig at Eric.

Kiki lay twisted on the ground, her clothes torn and shirt gaping, arms hooked over her face. She turned to the sound of the opening door, and a piece of Kat was lost forever when their eyes met.

Kiki’s eye was swollen nearly shut, a sick shade of purple ringing the socket, and blood streamed from a cut on her bruised cheek. Mascara streaked and smeared her face, her eyes wild and as bright as emeralds, shining with fear.

Eric loomed over her, his muscles straining under his skin as he flexed his massive fist, pulled back and ready to release. His face snapped to Kat’s, his eyes possessed. He was barely recognizable, a feral creature, completely broken.

Kat didn’t flinch, didn’t move, just stood in the doorway with her legs apart, chin down, and his forehead in her sights.

“Back the fuck up.” Her voice held a calm she didn’t feel.

His fist dropped just enough to indicate he’d heard her. “She’s not leaving me.”

“That’s not really up to you to decide, now is it?”

“I won’t let her.” His even tone sent a chill through her.

“Looks to me like she already did. Now, you have about ten seconds to get the fuck out of my house before I blow your fucking brains out.” Her heart hammered in her ears, but her hand was stock-still, her breath slow and steady, just like she’d been taught.

He stood straight, staring her down with dark eyes that cut through her like a hot blade. She could practically see his neurons firing as he worked through his options.

But he’d never been a smart man.

He turned back to Kiki, his face twisting, eyes burning with obsession as he bent over her, hand outstretched, and hissed, “You’re mine.”

Kat unlocked the safety. “Time’s up.”

“Wait!” Kiki screamed. “Kat, wait!”

Her finger eased off the trigger as her eyes darted to Kiki and back to Eric. She would kill him without thinking twice, without a single regret, and that fact clicked into awareness in them both at the same moment.

Eric’s eyes were on fire as he stepped toward the door and she sidestepped in the opposite direction, toward her sister, tracking him across the room with her gun.

He stopped in the doorway, face shrouded in shadows, his dark silhouette framed by the night.

“This isn’t over,” he said.

Her finger brushed the trigger, wishing to end it. “It had better fucking be over. You come back, and you’re dead. She won’t save you from me again.”

He stood in silence, hands clenched, the muscles in his arms rippling as he gripped and released, waiting what felt like ages before slipping away into the darkness.

Kat stared at the empty space long after his car rumbled away with the nose of her gun trembling, still aimed at the place where he’d stood as she waited for him to come back.

Kiki broke the quiet with a sob, and Kat wheeled around, dropping to her knees at her sister’s side.

Her ponytail hung half out with loose strands that had fallen around her shoulders. He dragged her by it, Kat thought as she inspected Kiki, running her hand over Kiki’s tangled hair and bloodied, bruised face before drawing her sister into her arms.

“Shh. It’s okay,” Kat whispered, the words shaky.

Kiki’s breath came in ragged, shuddering sobs. She curled into Kat, who looked back at the open door, expecting to find Eric there.

And she rocked her sister, whispering a promise. “I won’t let him hurt you.”

Later that same night, Kat shifted gears and gripped the wheel with both hands again, the Camaro speeding through the desert that stretched out in every direction around them.

She glanced over at Kiki, who sat curled into the door with her forehead pressed against the glass, staring out at nothing.

“How long will it take us to get to New York?” Kiki’s hollow voice startled Kat. Neither of them had spoken for hours.

“Three days. Two if we drive straight through. We should have enough of a head start on Eric to be able to stop so I can sleep, if you don’t feel like driving.”

“He’s not going to follow us.”

Kat’s fingers tightened on the steering wheel. “He’d better not, or he’s dead. Seriously fucking dead.”

She turned to Kat with glistening eyes, the slit of her swollen eye brimming. “Stop it,” she said with a trembling voice. “Please.”

Kat took a heavy breath to calm herself; it didn’t. What she wanted was to cry, to scream or yell, to tell Kiki how she felt, how she really felt. She would say that she was sorry. That she was afraid it wasn’t over. Admit that she’d almost killed him. But she couldn’t. She wouldn’t do anything to make things any harder on Kiki than they already were.

But she couldn’t keep completely quiet. It just wasn’t in her nature.

“He’s had fair warning, Kiki. I won’t let him go again.”

“I know,” she whispered, laying her head on the window again. “I just don’t know how I’m supposed to live with myself if I’m the reason he’s killed.”

Kat’s heart sank like a stone in her chest. “I get it. I was the one who almost killed him.” She paused. “Kiki … what happened?”

Her shoulders lifted in the slightest of shrugs. “I don’t know when it happened, when things turned. Everything was fine at first. I mean, we were together all the time, but somehow, I never knew what he was. Who he was. What he wanted. I thought he was just into me, and that was why he was so clingy. But once the newness wore off and I tried to get back to my life, he squeezed tighter. And then … I don’t know. He started to get angry. Possessive. I’d been planning on breaking up with him for a while, but I was afraid of how he’d react. At least I was right about that.” Her voice was gravelly and worn.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I knew you’d flip out.”

Regret slipped over Kat. Kiki wasn’t wrong; if she’d known, she would have put a stop to it. And now, they were living the worst-case scenario outside of that one way, that final way.

“I’m sorry you didn’t feel like you could come to me,” Kat finally said.

“It’s okay.” She stared out the window. “You would have been right.”

Silence stretched between them for a moment. “You know that if Dad finds out what Eric did, he won’t stop until the debt is paid.”

Kiki wiped a tear from her cheek. “It’s the yakuza way. I don’t even want to think about it.”

Kat stared at the road where her headlights cut wedges in the dark. Their father was a yakuza waka gashira — the right hand of a big boss in the Japanese Mafia. And he would go to great lengths where his daughters were concerned.

Given Eric’s crime, his punishment would be extreme. And extreme for yakuza was unspeakable.

She sighed. “We’ll figure it out, Kiki. I’ll call Dad in the morning and tell him we’re coming.”

Kiki turned, snapped from her lethargy, her body tense and alert. “What are you going to tell him?”

“Not the truth. I’ll tell him we just want a change of scenery.”

“You really think he’s going to buy that?”

“Probably not. But if you want Eric alive, this is the only way. Dad can’t know the truth. I don’t think he’ll press our story, but he’ll dig around behind our backs to find out. Eric won’t say anything, not knowing who our father is. He’s stupid, but he’s not that stupid.”

“What about Mom?”

“I think we can tell her the truth, and I think we have to. There’s no way she’ll believe we split town in the middle of the night without saying goodbye for no reason. She won’t tell Dad. Out of everyone, she’s the one person who will understand what it would mean if he found out.”

Kiki nodded. “I should be the one to tell her. You handle Dad.”

“Okay.” Kat glanced at her sister and then back at the road. “I know you don’t think Eric will follow us, but I’m going to have a couple of people who run in our circles let me know if he leaves town or starts asking about us. If he makes a move, we’ll let Dad loose. We should have a few days’ lead on him if he leaves Vegas. He won’t fly if he has plans for us, too easy to track. But if he lets it go, if enough time passes … well, I’m hoping we can all just fucking drop it.”

Kiki ran a thumb over her swollen bottom lip. “We’re going to need jobs—unless you’re going to race.”

But she shook her head, heart heavy. “There’s too high of a chance that someone will recognize me and get back to Eric. You know how bookies love to gossip, and I stand out.”

The thought of not being able to race weighed on her. When everything else was out of control, racing always brought her back to center. It was one of the only things she could control.

“So, bartending?” Kiki asked with a half-smile.

Kat chuckled. “What bar owner worth his salt wouldn’t hire two half-Japanese sisters with green eyes?”

“Zero-point-zero. What about a place to live?”

“I’ll talk to Dad about it tomorrow. He’ll help us find a place, hopefully one with a garage. Otherwise, where the fuck am I gonna park Sheila in New York City?”

Kiki laughed, but it never reached her eyes. “Good point.”

Kat covered Kiki’s hand with her own. “It’s going to be all right, Kiki.”

The sigh that left her was heavy. “Coming from anyone else, that wouldn’t make me feel better. But from you? I have to believe it’s true.”

And Kat sped off into the night, hoping she could keep that promise.

* * *

Kat flipped the bottle cap over and held it flat between her thumb and ring finger. When she snapped, the cap flew across the room and hit the label on a bottle of Canadian Club with a gratifying tink.

It had been a month since that night, and everything seemed fine. This should have come as a relief. She should have found comfort. But there was only the anticipation of the worst.

Eric haunted her, the vision of his eyes, of his voice, of his echoing the words, She’s mine. He would have killed Kiki, she knew. If Kat hadn’t come home, if she hadn’t stopped him, her sister would have died.

Because if he couldn’t have her, no one would. She believed that terrifying truth with all her heart.

That look in his eyes had told her more than he’d said in words, though those had said plenty on their own. He wasn’t going to let her go: his words had been a vow. It wasn’t over, no matter how quiet things had been.

She wondered if it would ever be over. She wondered when she’d be able to rest. But in the end, what Kat wanted didn’t matter. All that mattered was keeping Kiki safe from him.

If she could only tell her father. She considered, it just as she had a hundred times. He would put an end to the nightmare, and they would be free again. But she couldn’t betray Kiki. If Eric died, Kiki wouldn’t forgive her.

If he lived to hurt Kiki again, she didn’t know if she could forgive herself.

No, Kiki was in denial. Her sister, the dreamer. The optimist. She believed the worst was behind them and had turned her face to the sun while Kat looked back to the shadows, waiting for him.

Kat sighed, the circle of the argument complete once again; it was a path she’d walked so much it was a rut with no beginning or end. The inventory clipboard hung on the wall behind her, and she picked it up, turning to the bottles lining the shelves, hoping that, by the time she finished counting the rum, the brothers would be gone.

If only they’d never walked into the bar. Owen was complicating an already complex situation. And Kiki would keep on believing that everything was fine, jumping into the arms of a man who couldn’t protect her or himself against the storm Eric would bring.

Of course, Dillon could protect Kiki too. And if he wasn’t such a fucking asshole, she might have even had faith in him to do just that.

She thought about Kiki and Owen and what it would mean if they started something, wishing again they had met down the road. Kat wanted so badly for Kiki to be happy but at what cost? She wanted Kiki to make her own choices, but she was naive to believe she would ever be safe—not just from Eric, but from anyone.

The entire situation was impossible, a maze with no exit. And Kat had been given the delicate task of finding a way to lead them out.

Dillon slammed his car door shut with a sharp flick of his arm and stormed up the steps into the house.

Fucking disaster.

He was furious, so furious that he’d left his brother at the bar in exchange for driving around Brooklyn with the hopes that it would calm him down.

It hadn’t.

He stomped up the stairs and to his room, pulling off his jacket, then his shirt. Once he kicked off his shoes and traded his jeans for sweats, he trotted back down the stairs to his weight room, flipped on the lights, turned on Pantera, and loaded his barbell. “Mouth for War” raged out of his speakers, and he lay down on the bench and got to work.

With every press, with every firing of nerves and burst of energy, his anger focused on the heat of his muscles and the air in his lungs.

He had no idea why Kat set him off so easily. Every button he had, she pushed. Everything she could say wrong, she did.

He’d done her no kindness either.

And still he found himself thinking about it, replaying the exchange, noting every time they’d lost ground until the moment they slid away from each other.

She was infuriating and intriguing. She was maddening and mysterious. He wanted to know her, and he wanted nothing to do with her. He wanted to kiss her, and he wanted to kill her.

His arms trembled from exertion, each press slower than the one before until he hit his limit, using his reserve energy to hook the bar back in the stand. And then he sat, straddling the bench, fuming.

He didn’t understand why he wanted to know her, why he wanted to see her. To fight with her again, to apologize, to win, to submit — he wanted it all, whether he knew why or not.

Instead of sorting it out, he moved to the squat bar and added weights, trying not to think about his brother and Kiki. He tried not to think of Kat or her eyes or that smile he’d only caught glimpses of. He tried not to think of what he’d said to her.

He tried to rid himself of the desire to take it back. But that was the hardest of all to shake.

The city lights dotted the space out of Ares’s window that night as he sat low on his couch, legs open as he played video games, but he was barely playing attention. His mind was on her.

He’d spent the afternoon in her arms, reacquainting himself with her body. Being with her was like coming home after war, filled with relief and purpose and determination not to squander his lease on life.

Calmness had settled into him that he hadn’t felt in so long, he’d all but forgotten the feeling. It was a rightness, a certainty of his future.

It was hope.

She had submitted, yielded, bent to him, and it was every bit as sweet as he’d known it would be.

The elevator pinged behind him, and he paused the game, looking over his shoulder. His heart skipped when he heard heels clicking in his foyer.

“Dita?” he called, unable to keep the optimism from his voice.

His mother rounded the corner, her blue eyes narrow and red lips in a tight line. “No, it most certainly is not.” Her blond hair was perfectly coiffed, but she ran a hand over it anyway to be sure.

Ares tossed his controller onto the couch and sighed. “Hello, Hera.”

She clipped into the room and sat primly in a blood-red leather armchair, her back straight and stiff. “Please, call me Mother, Mom, or some other respectful term. It’s truly one of the few things I ask of you.” Her elbow rested on the arm of the chair, and she crossed her ankles, the curve of her waist bending her body in an elegant angle like a fashion model from the 50s.

“Yes, Mother.”

“That’s better,” she said, satisfied, as she smoothed out her navy pencil skirt.

“Do you need something?”

“Do I need a reason to visit my son?”

He sighed.

“I’d like to hear your plans for the competition. How’s it coming along?”

Ares threaded his fingers behind his head. “Dandy.”

Her brow rose as she waited for him to continue.

“I’ve got it under control. What more do you want to know?”

“What exactly are your plans? Forgive me, my sweet, but you have never been the strategist of the family. That title is held by your sister.”

He huffed at the insult. Ares and Athena had never gotten along — they fought constantly. He could never beat her, not at games, not at wars, not even at arguments. It was maddening.

Ares offered an abridged version of his plan, knowing he wouldn’t escape until he gave her something. “Well, Dillon can’t keep his mouth closed long enough for Dita to stand a chance. And there’s Eric, the ex-boyfriend. Since Kiki left him, he’s come unhinged, and every day, he’s getting worse. All I have to do is let him loose, and I’ll win.”

“Eric is the key. You can control him, weaponize him. Watch him, watch the game, and use him when the moment is right.” Hera’s smile was cruel, her mouth a red slash. “Oh, Aphrodite won’t be pleased.”

“She definitely will not be pleased. Which is why I don’t know if I’ll use him.”

Hera’s hand stilled as it swept over the cuff of her blouse. “Excuse me?”

“If I lead Eric to the girls, he’ll kill them. I’ll win the competition, but I’ll lose Aphrodite.”

She stared at him blankly. “I still don’t understand the problem.”

“I have a chance to get her back, and I’m going to take it. Which means, no Eric.” He changed the subject, not interested in arguing. The last thing he needed was to burn his bridge with Hera; he needed her. “So I saw your groupies in action.”

She eyed him but took the lead, not pressing him about Dita. “Jessica is an amusing distraction and a tool already in play to interfere. I’ve been whispering in her ear for so long, her nature is my own.” Hera crossed her legs, shifting in her chair. “You’ll at least try to win, won’t you?”

“Of course I’ll try to win. I just don’t want to kill anybody.”

One very blond, very manicured eyebrow rose.

“Okay, maybe I want to kill some people, but I’m going to try not to,” he conceded.

She dragged in a breath through her nose and let it out out slowly. “Well,” she said shortly, “you have my tokens, should you need any help. Do you have any others?”

Ares unclasped his fingers and crossed his arms over his chest. “A few, but I doubt they’ll help me. I’m not anyone’s favorite anything. I’ve never been the golden boy.”

“No, that title belongs to Apollo, as infuriating as it is. Your father and his illegitimate children. It’s all Aphrodite’s fault.” The color rose in her cheeks, her blue eyes sharp. “She has crossed me more times than I care to consider.” She tugged at the cuff of her blouse again, poorly feigning indifference.

“She’s not trying to get to you. She’s trying to get to Zeus.”

“It only hurts me. Does she honestly think he would be opposed to sleeping with anything and everything that struck his fancy?” She glared at him, but he shook his head.

“What affects him is your wrath.”

Her face relaxed with the exception of that same solitary eyebrow, and she lifted her chin. “Well, I do suppose that is something to fear.” She popped open her purse with a sigh, digging through it for her lipstick and a small mirror. “What do you expect from Aphrodite?”

Ares smirked. What he expected from Dita was hardly appropriate to talk about with his mother. “She’s already gotten the younger siblings interested in each other, I assume to force Kat and Dillon into each other’s space, give them time to warm up. But Dillon is a land mine, and if I set him off, he’ll destroy everything she’s built. I just need to time it right.”

She ran her lipstick over her lips, eyes on her mirror as she pressed them together. “If she’s using the siblings, perhaps we should try to keep them apart.”

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. Why didn’t I think of that? “How do you suggest we do it? The only thing I’ve got is Eric, and I have to save him until I need him—if I use him at all. He’s my last grenade.” He shook his head, thinking it over. “I have no influence on Kiki or Owen; they aren’t aggressive or prone to fighting, not even arguing. And you don’t have much influence over them either. They’re not particularly jealous or proud.”

“No, but you and I have all of New York to choose from if we want to create a diversion. We can create a wedge. My powers are divisive; yours are merely destructive. Even though that has its place, darling,” she added a little hastily as she snapped her mirror closed. “We even have some closer to the point of impact. Like Jessica.”

Ares ran a hand across the stubble of his chin. “What about her?”

“What if she or her little friends were to try to make Dillon jealous?” she asked with a cruel smile. “And what if the nearest object of affection was Owen? And what if Kiki saw this happen? Perhaps we could fan Dillon’s anger a bit while we’re at it. He could be very angry if Owen were hurt somehow by the whole thing.”

One corner of his lips lifted into a smile. “Think it would work?”

She shrugged elegantly. “It’s worth finding out — unless you have a better idea.”

“I’ll think about it,” was all he was willing to commit to.

Her cool eyes assessed him for a moment. “Do you think you can beat her?”

“I usually don’t. But this time … well, there’s a possibility. Kat has her own baggage; she’s not going to make this easy for Dita. The players are volatile, and the situation is explosive, which gives me an edge. So, yes, there’s reason to hope.”

The thought of winning was sweet, so sweet that he found himself smiling. There was nothing he hated more than to lose, especially to her. He’d much prefer to own her. In all ways.

“Well,” Hera said as she dropped her mirror and lipstick into her clutch, “let me know how I can help. Just don’t tell your father. He hates to hear that you and I are scheming.”

Ares rolled his eyes. “Fucking Zeus.”

“Oh, darling. He won’t hurt you. Not with me around.”

His teeth clenched, jaw flexing. “I’m not worried about him hurting me. And I don’t need your protection.”

“Don’t be angry.” She tsked. “I only mean, you needn’t be concerned if he finds out we are scheming. I’m practically the only being who can sway Zeus. I’ll take care of him.”

Ares glanced to the city outside the windows. Of all of Zeus’s children, Ares was the only legitimate son — the heir, born of the union of Zeus and Hera, and yet he was the least favored of all. It should have come as no surprise that the tempestuous relationship between his father and mother would have bred the God of War, and Ares was born into his nature, coddled by his mother and rejected by his father. Maybe it was simply because Ares was a reminder of Hera, whom Zeus resented so much.

She was queen by name alone, never able to rule Zeus’s heart, no matter how much she wished or hoped or tried. She squeezed him with an iron grip to hang on to him, but Zeus would not be told how to feel. Ares had never witnessed kindness between his parents and didn’t believe it had ever existed. And so, Zeus would find his joy with other women, like Leto, his longtime lover who had born him the twins Apollo and Artemis.

Hera hated her so deeply that the only place Leto was safe was in Artemis’s domain — where Zeus could be found on many nights.

Zeus was proud of so many of his children, particularly Apollo and the demigod Hercules, but he forever looked down upon Ares as a curse, a bumbling mistake, and Ares forever found himself fulfilling the prophecy, never able to win his father’s approval, no matter how he’d tried.

* * *

Nothing was ever enough.

Even as a small child, Ares had been difficult, unbridled, without thought for consequence. He had been the God of War from the start, finding thrill in the lust of a fight, the madness brought by murder, the survival of self by dominance over another. Forever was he following his instincts, doing what he thought and cared to do, never understanding why it was wrong.

But his mother understood.

She would find him deep in the gardens with his fingers buried in the innards of a rabbit, split open with his knife, and she would pet his hair and whisper sweetness into his ear as she swept the carcass away and washed the smell of death from his hands. She would follow him through the woods on her horse as he ran naked through the brush, spear in hand, mud streaking his face, a battle cry ripping from his throat as he felled a boar with little more than a stick and his bare hands. And she would smile when he laid gifts of blood and flesh at her feet, a smile that reminded him that he was precious to someone. To her.

His father did not have the same affinity for such gifts.

Ares would be met with disdain and disgust, the hot rejection from the one whom he needed it most twisting him, shaping him.

But he never stopped trying.

It was the thought in his head as he ran through the halls of Olympus as a giddy boy who should have been innocent but never would be, not beyond the callow desire to please his father.

Blood dripped from his fingers in a soft pat, pat, pat, a crimson trail on the creamy limestone floors. He could still feel the thrumming of heartbeats in its warmth.

He sped into the open space of their quarters looking for Zeus. Open walls led to a covered balcony lined with potted cypress trees that stretched to the sky like spears, and the cerulean ocean spread toward the horizon like a glistening mirror of the sky.

Zeus looked up from the scroll in his hand, his massive frame filling the chair at his grand desk so fully that it almost seemed too small, like furniture for a child.

His gray eyes sparked. A shadow passed across his face, his lips flattening. “Ares, a thousand times I have told you—” His eyes traveled down to Ares’s hands. “Is that … blood?”

“Father,” Ares said, standing tall and strong and proud, chin in the air, the picture of pride. “Today, in Olympia, a crowd gathered, an angry mob. The Grecians—”

Ares’s eyes snapped to Athena as she glided in from an antechamber, white robes flowing and nose in the air, moving to stand behind Zeus to watch Ares, assess him, calculate. A small, condescending smile played on her lips, and Ares scowled, unable to stop the flush from creeping up his neck.

Zeus set the scroll down with a pop. “Get on with it, boy.”

Ares turned his attention back to his father and puffed out his chest. “They defiled your statue, and so I passed judgment, a lesson to be learned by all — none shall desecrate the name of the King of Gods without payment in blood.”

“You what?” His voice boomed, and the room dimmed, filling with rolling thunder.

Ares’s smile fell. Athena’s widened.

“What have you done?” Zeus hissed. “Are they … you killed them?”

“Y-yes, Father.” Joy washed out of him and fear took its place. The heartbeats that had delivered the blood to his hands silenced.

“And you believed I would be pleased?” He stood, gray eyes storming.

Ares opened his mouth to speak as his father approached, but the words caught in his dusty throat.

Hera burst through an archway and onto the patio, emerald robes flying behind her like wings, her face wild. As she entered the room, she slowed to a brisk walk, smoothing her robes with shaking hands, painting on a placid smile to mask her distress. Her eyes betrayed her.

“Whatever is this?” she asked innocently.

“Not now, Hera,” Zeus growled as thunder boomed, the sky growing darker by the second.

Wind whipped through from the ocean, charged and smelling of salt, setting the hairs on Ares’s arms and neck on end. Zeus fixed his cold eyes on Ares as he stepped toward his son, hands open by his sides, lightning crawling and jumping between his fingers.

“Dearest.” Hera laid a hand on his arm, her voice tight and false. “But what has he done?”

He laid the weight of his gaze on her. “He has slaughtered Grecians. In my temple.”

She glanced at Ares, shocked, but she quickly recovered, smiling at Zeus, stroking his arm. “He must have had reason. Was he defending your honor?” Her eyes found Ares again.

The boy nodded, his eyes on his father, his heart climbing his throat.

Zeus pointed at his son, white lightning crackling from the tip of his finger. “This will not go unpunished.” He flipped his hand and splayed his fingers.

Ares’s arms were pressed to his body, the air pulled out of his lung by the force of his father’s power, his bones bending, cracking. As Zeus raised his hand, Ares rose along with it. The only sound was the rumble of thunder, the popping lightning, and the soft pat of the blood of sacrifice as it hit the stone beneath his dangling feet.

Zeus closed his fist, and Ares saw nothing, his body thrashing, eyes rolling back, the world dim and distant, aware of nothing but his pain.

“Stop!” Hera screamed, pulling Zeus’s arm with all her strength, the pretense of calmness gone, her face bent and twisted in panic. “He did this for you! He only wishes to please you. Please, please! Let him go!”

“Not yet,” Zeus said through his teeth. His eyes were so focused on Ares, there was nothing else, his purpose singular.

Lightning wove a cage around Ares, and only then did Zeus release him.

Ares slammed into the base of the cage, lighting it with a shock at the contact, the charge of the spark and crackle hanging in the air around them.

The King of Gods walked to the cage where his son lay, panting. The boy looked at his father, pleading to a judge with no mercy, begging for understanding where none would be found.

“Never,” Zeus said, the muscles in his neck taut, the chill in his voice final. “Never presume to act in my name.”

He clapped his hands once, and Athena jumped, wide-eyed, a gasp passing her lips.

The cage disappeared.

Hera’s face drained, her porcelain skin as white as snow. “What have you done with him?” she breathed.

As the clouds parted and the sun slipped over them, he turned to her with flinty eyes. “He is in the great hall where all can see. All can hear what he has done. All can mock him. Perhaps he will learn the humility you could never teach him.”

Hera shrank away from him as he blew past her and away with the scent of rain and rage in his wake, his white cloak flapping behind him with the billowing snap of sails.

* * *

“Are you listening?” Hera’s voice was sharp with impatience.

“What?” Ares snapped, still shaken from the memory.

“I said, if you win, what will you do with the token?”

He ran a hand from jaw to chin. “I suppose it depends on how the competition goes.” He could use it for Dita or against her, help her or hurt her. Or he could serve himself.

There were so many favors he could ask of her.

Hera eyed his smiling face. “You really believe you have a chance.”

Ares hung his arms on the back of the couch. “We’ll see.”

“Well, someone should beat her.” She flattened her lips and brushed invisible lint from the arm of the chair. “If it’s not you, perhaps it will be me.” At that thought, her lips twisted in a smile.

“Maybe it will be you, Mother, and you can devise some horribly embarrassing way to exact revenge.”

Her smile stretched wider, and she stood to go, tucking her clutch under her arm. “Oh, yes. I’m sure I could think of something.”

Apollo stretched out on Dita’s bed as he watched Dita and Perry bustle around a very wary Daphne.

They went on about her, and her moss-green eyes followed them with mild suspicion. Her robes were the color of evergreen, and a golden rope wound around her slender waist, crisscrossing between her breasts — they had called it a strophion in the old times — pinned there by a brooch that twinkled with rubies.

Apollo folded his hands behind his head with a sigh, his gaze sweeping the length of her wild copper hair that tumbled down her back in curls. He would never get his fill of her, not in a thousand years.

Dita and Perry had undertaken a mission to bring Daphne into the twenty-first century, though the nymph was clearly out of her element, having just been awakened after being locked in a magical tree for three-thousand-some-odd years.

Daphne met his eyes and offered a tentative smile, and he winked with a comforting smile of his own.

Dita held up a pair of black skinny jeans and a sheer gold blouse. “These are going to look amazing with your hair.”

She hesitantly took the clothes, the corners of her lips turning down a smidge. “Are you sure —”

“Don’t worry,” Dita said, shuffling her toward her closet. “You’ll get the hang of it.” She stopped just short of the door and snapped her fingers. “I almost forgot! Hold, please.” She ran into her closet and came back a moment later with a lacy black bra in her hands.

Daphne’s frown deepened.

“It goes like this.” Dita held the bra up over her shirt.

Apollo’s brow rose as Daphne took the device, perplexed.

Dita laughed. “It’s like your strophion, except a little more … involved.”

Daphne looked down at the bra and touched the brooch with her free hand, clearly not buying Dita’s flippancy about the undergarment.

Perry turned Daphne toward the closet, and the nymph glanced over her shoulder at Apollo with pleading eyes before the door closed.

Dita gathered her long golden hair and twisted it into a rope as she walked across the room, tossing it over her shoulder. She plopped onto the foot of the bed.

“So, Kat and Dillon look like a real match,” Apollo said, his voice laden with sarcasm.

Dita’s mouth fell into an O as she mocked, “You doubt moi? Didn’t I just beat you? Again?”

He shrugged. “I got what I wanted, so I guess that’s debatable.”

She laughed and hit him with a throw pillow. “Don’t be a douche.”

“Speaking of douches, how’s Ares?”

Dita sighed and rolled onto her side, propping her head on her hand. “Same as always.”

“I’ll never understand the attraction, Dita. He’s such a shit.”

“Well, he’s my shit,” she joked, but her smile lost its shine. “I don’t understand it any more than you do. Maybe it’s because we’re so much alike.”

He shook his head. “Personally, I don’t think you two are anything alike. He’s petty and vindictive, arrogant and childish. He’s been throwing tantrums over his toys for thousands of years with little care or respect for others.”

“Some would say the same about me.”

“Then they don’t know you at all.”

She picked at her bedding, eyes on her fingers. “We’re more alike than you think. It’s just that I’m not evil. I mean, not unless provoked.”

He laughed at that.

“We’re both too competitive for our own good, and we have a high appreciation for beauty, power, and sexual aptitude.”

“So, basically, it’s like sleeping with yourself?”

“Sleeping with your evil self. Pretty much.”

Apollo recrossed his ankles. “There has to be more to it than that, Dita. He’s far too much trouble for that to be enough.”

“The distance of time helps. We go a long time between being together, and with Adonis gone …” She let out a heavy breath. “Apollo, I’m alone. And I know Ares is bad for me. I know it will probably all end in tears. He hates me for not choosing him, and I hate him because he wants to consume me and won’t rest until he has. But we love each other just as much. We hurt each other, but we always come back for more. It’s … complicated.”

“I’ll say. But you’re still going to try to beat him, right?”

She gave him a look. “Whenever have I not tried to win?”

“Fair.” Apollo grabbed a small red pillow and put it behind his head. “Have any moves up your sleeve?”

“Kiki and Owen are my biggest move. They’re my only tool to get the players into each other’s space. If Kat had her way, she’d never see Dillon again. No way would she willingly give him a second chance. She’s already written him off.”

“Well, sounds like you’ve got this in the bag.”

“Don’t question the mistress.” Her eyes lit up, and her smile was merry. “They just need a little time to realize they’re not enemies. Without Kiki and Owen, my chances would drop drastically. They’re the reason I chose Kat as my player. I’m sure I could still win, but I’d really have to work for it.”

“Do you think Ares will try to expose that? Break them up?”

“I’m not sure he’s smart enough to see anything but the direct path. He thrives on spontaneity. The heat of the battle and all that. He relies completely on his emotions. Athena is the sibling with pragmatism.”

“She’s so pragmatic, she’s practically a robot.”

Dita snickered. “Ares will probably use Eric, but I’m hoping that by the time he figures to put Eric in the game, I’ll either be close enough to winning that it won’t matter or I’ll have a plan to take care of him. If Eric comes after the girls, I’m afraid he’ll kill them.” Her voice softened, all levity gone. “He’s a psychopath, and he wants Kiki.”

Apollo’s brows were drawn, the dread of the potential outcomes stirring in his chest. “I just hope you haven’t handed the game to Ares by choosing someone so unpredictable.”

“I won’t deny that Kat was a risky choice, but I can see the threads that bind them, and I know it’s right.”

He must not have looked convinced because she smiled.

“I’ve got this. Ares has quite literally never beaten me in my own game. He doesn’t have the capacity to understand love. He doesn’t even understand his own love for me, which is why he can’t seem to respect that love, or me. So really, don’t worry; the odds of him winning are laughable. Perry and I even have bets going on how fast I can beat him and what his reaction will be, if you want in.”

“You sure you want to bet with the Oracle?”

She laughed, flashing her perfectly gorgeous smile. “I’m not worried. Plus, I love beating him, partly because he is the biggest baby when he loses.”

“It’s so true. Remember that chariot race in Rome?”

“Oh gods. Do I ever.” Dita ran her hand through her hair, shaking her head. “That tantrum was one of the many reasons why I wouldn’t have anything to do with him. Well, before I had something to do with him at least. He hates to lose, but with you, he’s got something to prove. Daddy’s golden boy versus the ne’er-do-well.”

Apollo folded his arms across his chest. “He lost that race fair and square. I don’t even know why he challenged me. He’s always been the second best chariot driver in the history of the universe. He should have challenged me to a gladiator bout. I would have sucked at that. But no, he had to pick one of the few things I’m amazing at. He’s the sorest sport. Ever. We should have Heff make him a medal.”

Dita snorted. “We can shape it like a giant dick and put Number One Cocksucker on the metal plate.”

A laugh shot out of Apollo, and Dita giggled at a memory.

“Remember afterward?” she asked. “When he stomped around the finish line arguing and threw his helmet?”

“Are you kidding? I play that on a loop when I have a bad day.”

The closet door opened, and Daphne emerged looking extraordinarily uncomfortable. She walked into the room like a newborn calf, tugging at the thighs of her jeans as she stopped in front of the mirror in Dita’s bathroom.

Apollo sat up when he saw her, swinging his legs off the bed to walk to her.

Daphne eyed him, but he touched her freckled cheeks and brushed his lips to hers in awe and reverence.

When he pulled away, he was smiling. “You look beautiful.”

Her bottom lip slipped between her teeth as she looked down the line of her body. “These clothes are so odd. Women truly wear garments like these all the time? I feel … well, I feel stifled and naked all at the same time.”

Apollo turned to Dita with a brow up. “You couldn’t have started her off with a dress?”

Dita waved him off. “Sometimes you just have to dive in.” She beamed at Daphne and hopped up onto the counter. “You look fantastic. Okay, so what do you want to learn about the modern world today?”

Perry leaned against the counter next to Dita, her face lighting up. “What about the Kardashians?”

Dita rolled her eyes. “I don’t see how that’s relevant—”

Daphne looked up at them, big-eyed. “The who?”

That was all Perry needed. “Well, see, there are these sisters, and they’re famous. They’re really beautiful and rich, and everyone watches them to see what they’ll wear and what they’ll say. Really, their whole family is famous, too—”

Daphne’s eyes sparkled with wonder. “These sisters, are they princesses?”

Perry’s brow furrowed. “No, not exactly …”

“You know,” Dita interjected, “on second thought, maybe we should let you get used to the whole pants thing. And I’m sure Apollo can teach you more about your bra.” She jumped off the counter with a wink.

Apollo laughed and held Daphne a little closer. The realization that she was real and whole and in his arms caught him by surprise; it was always in the small moments. And he smiled at Dita, his savior, who loved Ares, his jailer, hoping she could find a way through the competition without getting hurt.

But he knew it was in vain.

It was late by the time Kat ran out of things to count in the stockroom. Kiki hadn’t bothered to come check on her, which stung. Kiki’s absence was also an indicator that the brothers were still there, which made leaving the back even worse.

But Kat was nothing if not determined, so she took a deep breath and pushed the door open with a scowl on her face, ready for round two with the angry brother, thankful at least that she could kick them out.

Kiki sat next to Owen at the bar, though she hopped out of her seat the second she saw Kat and walked over, her face full of concern.

Dillon was gone. At that fact alone, Kat relaxed considerably.

“You okay?” Kiki asked with genuine worry.

Kat threw on a sardonic smile. “Great. Just peachy.”

Owen sighed. “I’m really sorry about him. He’s not usually so …”

“Hostile? Belligerent? Obnoxious?”

“Well, no,” Owen started. “He’s usually those things, but tonight he was in rare form.”

“And last night?” Kat added.

He rubbed the back of his neck. “And last night.”

Kiki gave her a withering glare.

Kat sighed, trying to at least make an attempt at being understanding. This required herculean effort. “Listen, it’s not your fault. And it’s nothing I’m not used to.” She tossed Kiki a towel and turned to start cleaning up. “It’s about closing time.”

She caught the towel and twisted it in front of her, biting her lip. “Um, Kat? Could I … I was wondering if maybe I could borrow your car to drive Owen home?”

Kat picked up a rack of glasses and stacked it on a cart with a clank. “Can’t Owen take a cab like the rest of New York?”

“Kat,” Kiki’s eyes went a little wide and darted to Owen, “come on.”

She was too tired and salty to care that she was being rude. “It’s really late, and Owen’s a big boy. He can take care of himself.”

“It’s just … I just thought maybe we could hang out a little longer, that’s all.”

And there was the truth of it. Kat turned to face her sister as Owen stood and pulled on his coat.

“It’s okay, Kiki. We can do it another time.” He gave Kat a smile that was warm and full of acceptance, which made her feel like an utter jerk. “It’s all good. Really.”

Kiki silently begged Kat with gigantic puppy-dog eyes.

Kat could already feel her resolve crumbling. Because, as pushy as she was and as much as she felt like she knew better, she also knew that saying no would end in a fight, and that fight wouldn’t go away. Kiki wasn’t going to drop it, which meant that if Kat pushed, Kiki would revolt. And if Kiki revolted, Kat’s job would become much, much more difficult. She’d quit listening, run away, leave Kat out. The sisters had been together almost every single minute since they left Vegas, and that comfort wasn’t something she was ready to give up yet.

There would be no saying no. But she could try to keep it under her control.

“How about you come to our place instead?”

The lovebirds grinned at each other from across the bar, and Kat almost felt happy for them.

“Works for me,” Kiki answered.

“At least that way, I can keep an eye on you,” she joked, making a V with her fingers and pointing them at her eyes, then her sister’s.

Kiki rolled her eyes, smiling as she pulled the bins of drink garnishes. “You’re more like a big brother than a big sister, you know that?”

“You’re welcome.” Kat reached for a scoop to empty the ice bin as Owen sat across from her.

He glanced over at Kiki, who was out of earshot. “Listen, I just want to say thanks. Kiki said the last guy she dated was a jerk and that you two didn’t get along, so I really appreciate you not tossing me out on my ass.”

She would have laughed at Kiki’s version of the truth if it hadn’t been so horrifyingly blasé. “Yeah, you could definitely say he and I didn’t see eye to eye. But here’s how to stay on my good side.” She squared her shoulders, her voice heavy with warning. “First, do not fuck with her. If you fuck with her, I will fuck with you, and you do not want me to fuck with you.”

He nodded.

“And second, if you have anything but noble intentions, you need to leave. She’s been through enough, and I still think it’s too soon. Don’t prove me right. Do you hear me?”

“Loud and clear.” He turned his gaze back to Kiki, who was heading to the back with her arms full of rubber mats. “I’m usually the one who gets dumped, if that makes you feel any better.”

Kat laughed and tossed a scoop of ice out of the bin and into the bucket. “Well, good luck with Kiki because she’s a man-eater. Though I will say, you’re not her usual type, so there’s hope for you to break the cycle.”

“And what’s her usual type?”

“Big, douchey meatheads. Sorta like your brother.”

He smirked. “Touché. I really am sorry about him.”

Kat shrugged and transferred more ice to the bucket. “It’s all right. You’re far more pleasant anyway. I’m glad she’s into you and not him.”

“Me too,” he said with a smile that reassured her more than she’d ever admit out loud.