Dillon sipped stale coffee from a Styrofoam cup, the metal folding chair he sat in hard and uncomfortable, listening to Melanie, a waitress in his anger management group.

Her arms were folded across her chest, her face drawn. “Then, that fucker had the nerve to tell me he didn’t want onions after I specifically asked him if he’d wanted them and he’d said yes. I almost lost it.”

Dr. Lovell adjusted his reading glasses where they sat low on his nose, peering over the top of them at Melanie. “You said almost. What happened?”

“I almost bit my tongue off to stop myself from cussing him out and found my manager so she could deal with the asshole.”

He nodded, his smile small but present all the same. “You took time to think things through and rerouted your trigger to someone better equipped to handle the situation. You removed yourself. That’s progress.”

She sighed with a weary smile of her own. “This is the first job I’ve held for more than two weeks in the last five years.”

Congratulations rolled through the group, and Dr. Lovell turned his attention to Dillon, arms crossed over the legal pad in his lap.

“We haven’t heard from you in a while, Dillon. How are things with you?”

He shifted in his seat, not wanting to talk. But he’d been in the group for years, built a level of trust with Lovell and his peers even though the group had grown and diminished and grown again. He knew it was a safe place. That didn’t stop him from remaining withdrawn unless it was absolutely necessary.

So he took a breath and sat back in his seat, the small coffee cup in the circle of his hands. “Owen met someone the other night after a fight, and things are … complicated.”

A few people nodded.

Lovell’s face was still. “Owen dating hasn’t ever been easy for you.”

“No, I guess not. He’s been hurt, mistreated, and we all know that’s my trigger. My biggest trigger at least.”

He nodded. “What makes it complicated?”

Dillon scratched the back of his neck and shook his head. “I think she’s dangerous, a risk. I see him with a good girl, someone who’s like him, someone who will take care of him. But I know I can’t choose for him. I can’t make that decision, and I can’t stop him from doing what he wants. It’s just …” He looked at a spot on the carpet in the center of the circle of chairs. “It’s like this; I’ve spent all this time and energy growing a garden, and eventually I know I have to let it go, give it to someone else. How do I know they’re going to care about it like I do? How do I know they won’t just let it go to ruin?”

“You don’t. That’s where you have to trust Owen.”

“I want to, but …”

“You’ve spent your life focused wholly on giving him the life you feel he deserves, and giving up that control is hard. You’ve been his keeper since you were a child.”

Dillon’s throat tightened, and he swallowed to force it back open.

“And it’s scary to think that, when he finds someone to love, you won’t be his keeper anymore, not the same way you’ve been. So what will you do with yourself? Therein lies your fear. But therein also lies your freedom.”

He met Dr. Lovell’s eyes but didn’t speak.

“What about you? If Owen finds someone, do you think you might want to too?”

Kat’s face flashed through his mind, but he shook his head. “I can’t. Doesn’t matter if I want to.”

“Can you tell us why?”

Dillon leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his coffee cup hanging in his hands. “What if we fight? Can I be with someone and keep my cool, keep calm when I’m angry? What if I hurt her? What if I’m too jealous, too possessive? Because I don’t know who I am with someone else. I don’t know how much I can give.”

“It’s a lot to assume with no data to back it up one way or the other. But there are ways to try without putting yourself or someone else at risk. Take it slow. Remember that the people who care about you aren’t your enemies. Be honest about how you feel and about your past.”

“That’s the hard part. How can I be honest and talk about what I talk about here with someone I don’t trust?”

“Let someone in enough to earn your trust. It doesn’t have to happen all at once. Step one is opening yourself up to the possibility.”

Dillon nodded, and Dr. Lovell moved on to another member, leaving him with his thoughts.

He looked into the black depths of his coffee, thinking about what had been said, wondering if it was possible. He hadn’t been open to it and wasn’t sure why he was even entertaining the possibility. Kat had affected him even though she shouldn’t have, even though she seemed to hate him — and with good reason. He’d pushed her away, hurt her, bitten her like an abused dog that spent its time waiting for another swinging boot, another angry word.

There was no chance for him there. Not with her.

And anyway, he barely had control. He didn’t know how to change. He didn’t know if he could. Because his beast was his father’s, and his father’s had been untamable, wild.

His father’s was a murderer, and Dillon would never stop believing his would be too.

* * *

Thunder boomed, rattling the windowpanes, and Owen scooted closer to Dillon on the worn, tweed couch. The dark living room was lit only by the flickering television and the occasional lightning that would cast white light and black shadows across the room.

Their father had left an hour before, drunk and possessed. One minute, he’d been sitting in his armchair, staring at the television with a drink in his hand, and the next, he had risen, mumbling to himself while he pulled on his boots. He’d left as the first drops of rain fell, and within minutes, the sky had opened up.

The rain fell in sheets against the windows, and the thunder and lightning had kept the boys from attempting to sleep. And through it all, Dillon knew something was so very wrong. He felt the whisper of it across his skin, in the air around him, in his bones and brain and soul. So he kept vigil, eyes on the screen, heart on his brother, mind on his father.

Headlight beams swung across the wall through the window. The brothers shared a look in silent agreement before switching off the television and running to their room, hearts banging, fear mounting. The feeling of wrongness amplified in the echo chamber of his mind. Owen climbed into Dillon’s bed, waiting for him, but Dillon closed the door but for a sliver, watching. Waiting.

The front door opened, and his father’s bulk filled the frame in shadows, the world behind him shining in the driving rain. Lightning flashed, and that was when Dillon saw the blood.

It wasn’t a drop or a smattering. It was a wash, staining the once-white undershirt from hem to collarbone in splashes and strokes, like a painting of an end, of death and rage, dotting and streaking his arms, his hands, his pants.

Jimmy stepped inside and slammed the door, his boots tracking mud through the living room. The kitchen light flooded into the living room when he clicked it on. His shoulders were wide and sinewy, the wet tank clinging to his broad chest as he turned to the sink, starting the faucet to rinse the gore from his arms and hands.

Dillon watched, rooted to the spot, his breath coming in bursts, as Jimmy gathered an armful of towels from the linen closet and disappeared outside. There were too many questions; Where had he gone? Who’s blood was that? Why had it happened, whatever it was?

But the question that burned brightest and hottest was this: Where’s Ma?

He couldn’t connect the questions in his mind, couldn’t admit what he suspected, unable to comprehend how it could be possible. There had to be another reason Ma wasn’t home, some explanation why Jimmy was covered in crimson. Jimmy got in fights all the time; that was nothing new. It had to be that. It couldn’t be more.

When Jimmy came back a few minutes later, he stripped down in the kitchen until he was naked, hands stained red, harsh light casting his body in shadows and light, sharpening every angle. Everything he touched went into a trash bag.

Owen sat in Dillon’s bed waiting, the covers gripped in his fists. “Dillon,” he whispered.

Dillon’s heart shot into his throat.

Jimmy froze in the kitchen, his hand stilling in the midst of tying a knot in the top. He looked back over his shoulder at the boys’ door and turned, his eyes as hollow as his soul.

Dillon shot away from the door and into bed, throwing the covers over him and Owen, pressing his mouth to his brother’s ear. “Pretend you’re asleep,” he whispered with numb lips and danger ringing in his ears with his pulse. “Freeze.”

The sliver of light from the door opened into a wide rectangle, and their father’s shadow stretched long in the center. Dillon heard the footsteps on the hardwood, and he closed his eyes gently as he tried to slow his racing breath, tried to melt his face into a mask feigning sleep. The smell of whiskey grew as Jimmy came closer, his breathing loud in the silent room, towering over the bed for what felt like an eternity.

“Fecking queers,” he spat. He turned to leave, closing the door solidly behind him.

Only then did Dillon take his first real breath since his father had walked through the door. And the gravity of it all pulled him down into himself, dragged down by the weight of fear and premonition.

Something had shifted, and his life would never be the same.

“Can I sleep in your bed?” Owen whispered.

Dillon hugged his small body, pulling it into his chest. “Course, buddy. Just try to get some sleep.”

After a little while, Owen’s breathing slowed, his body relaxed and heavy, his face soft with the peace of innocence. But sleep never found Dillon. He lay in bed and stared at the square of twilight on the rug until it turned from blue to purple to yellow, wishing for things he’d never have, holding onto the one thing he always would with both arms and his entire soul.

The world was silent until Owen woke, bleary-eyed and yawning.

“Sleep okay?” Dillon asked with a rough voice.

Owen nodded. “M’hungry.”

“All right,” he said, wishing they could stay locked in their room all day, terrified of what leaving would bring, what it would mean. “Let’s get you something to eat.”

Dillon kept Owen behind him, quietly slipping out of their room, his eyes scanning and ears alert.

Jimmy sat in his armchair, staring at the wall, in fresh clothes, his hair neatly combed. He didn’t register the boys as they walked through the room and to the kitchen, but Dillon was so aware of him that every sense focused on his father. He was a predator, and they were his prey, weak and exposed and at his mercy.

Dillon climbed onto the counter for the bowls and cereal and busied himself with the task of making them both breakfast, though he didn’t think he could eat — his stomach was a wasteland. But he made it all the same, taking a seat next to his brother with his eyes on his father, who hadn’t moved other than the slow rise and fall of his chest.

The doorbell rang just as Owen took his first bite, his eyes darting to Dillon’s. Their father stood, unfazed, as if he was expecting someone.

When he opened the door, it was to two policemen.

“James Malloy?”

“Yes,” he answered.

“May we come in for a moment?”

Jimmy nodded once and moved aside. Dillon’s heart beat faster. He was otherwise perfectly motionless.

The cops glanced around, their eyes landing on the boys.

One of them asked, “Is there somewhere we could speak in private?”

Jimmy acknowledged them for the first time that morning. “Go on. Go play in your room.”

He jerked his chin toward their bedroom, and they slid out of their seats and away, though Dillon didn’t close the door all the way. Instead, he stood in the spot where he’d been last night, watching and listening.

The policeman who seemed to be in charge took off his hat and smoothed a hand over his dark hair. “You might want to sit down, sir.”

Jimmy sat obediently with his hands in his lap, and the dark-haired cop took a seat in the chair next to him.

“Did you hear from your wife after she left work last night, sir?”

He shook his head, offering nothing else.

The cop took a breath and let it out. “She was assaulted last night on her way home. It happened near where she worked. Sir, I’m sorry to bring you this burden, but when we found her, she was already gone.”

Dillon’s world spun away from him until it was small and far away, like he’d looked through the wrong end of a telescope.

“Moira’s dead?” his father asked in vain.

“Yes, sir. We found her ID in her wallet — it was cleaned out, but they left her license. She was … she was beaten very badly. We’ll know more within a few days.”

Jimmy was eerily still. “Who did this?”

You did! Dillon’s mind screamed. Sweat dotted his brow, fingers clutching the doorframe.

The officer shook his head. “We don’t know. The rain washed away any evidence we might have been able to collect.” He ran a hand over his mouth, the dark shadows under his eyes deep. “We’ll do our best to find who did this to her. Be sure of that, Mr. Malloy.”

“Thank you,” he answered calmly. “Can I see her?”

To the police, Jimmy sounded like he was stunned, in shock. But Dillon knew him. He could hear the murderer lying in the low spaces of his voice.

“Yes, sir. We’ll need you to come with us to identify her and to answer a few questions. Is there someone who could watch your boys?”

“Aye. I’ll take them to the neighbor’s. You’ll excuse me while I care for me sons?”

He nodded. “We’ll wait for you outside.”

When the officers stood to leave, Dillon darted to Owen’s side, sitting next to him where he played with Hot Wheels on the floor between their beds.

The door swung open, and Jimmy stepped in, subdued. “Somethin’s happened to your ma. I’m to go with the police. You’ll go to Mrs. Killion’s until I’m back. I’ll come for you then.” His words held a strange, restrained calm.

Owen’s eyes bounced to Dillon. “Can I bring my cars?”

Dillon watched his brother for a breath, torn between relief that Owen had no clue what was going on and desire to tell him, to share the burden.

But instead, he said, “Sure, buddy.”

Jimmy’s glare was like flint as Owen gathered his cars into his arms. “Don’t be makin’ trouble or you’ll have me to answer to.”

The boys stood, and Dillon guided his brother out, wishing he could find comfort in something as simple as toys or an afternoon in a safe place. Their mother was gone, gone forever, the one who had always given him comfort when all seemed lost, the one who had loved him without condition, without question. The one who had protected them from their father. And somehow even as a child, Dillon knew he’d never find it again. Never would he be protected.

Now he would be the protector. Because Owen was all he had left, and he would guard that love or die trying.

* * *

When Dillon looked up, the group was dispersing. Some talked by the table of cookies and coffee as others collected their things.

Dr. Lovell moved over a few chairs to sit next to Dillon. “I hope you don’t mind, but I wanted to speak to you alone before you go.”

Dillon shook his head, unsure of what was left to say. “I don’t mind.”

He watched Dillon for a moment. “I know how important Owen is to you and how much your relationship has shaped you. And I know how much you lean on him. Have you really let yourself consider what will happen when he’s gone?”

“No,” Dillon answered honestly. “It’s always been us, him and me. And I know it’ll happen. I know the time will come. I’ve just always hoped it will work itself out. That I’ll somehow be ready.”

“Standing in his way will separate you even more than distance or relationships. I’m not saying the girl he’s seeing is the girl. But some day, he’ll be gone. If it’s not a relationship, it will be his job, or some other desire will pull him away. And if you give him the room to breathe, he’ll only grow more. It’ll only strengthen your bond. In the meantime, cultivate the relationships around you. Grow them, feed them just like you would your garden. Trust that what you have to offer will be enough, and the trust you build will be your salvation in the end.”

“And what about this part of me I can’t control? What if I care about someone and let them in only to hurt them? I don’t want to end up like my father. I can’t.” Panic rose in his chest. He pressed it down.

“Your father never admitted he was part of the problem. He never sought help. He gave in, and you overcame. He wasn’t aware, and he didn’t care. You do. That alone sets you apart.”

Dillon couldn’t find any words, and none were required. Dr. Lovell stood and squeezed Dillon’s shoulder before leaving him.

Trust. Salvation. Words that only meant something to him within the context of his brother.

The fact remained that he didn’t trust himself. And with Kat, if he got angry, she would fight right back. That was the root of his concerns. How could he stop himself when provoked? He couldn’t stop himself when he was left to his own devices. She’d be gasoline to his fire, not a salve to put the fire out.

He was intrigued by her, by the mystery of her, by her fire and spark, but he didn’t know if he could afford to be.

Maybe she would be his downfall. Maybe she was the only one strong enough to face him.

The very least he could do was apologize; he owed her that. He was the problem, and he could be the solution. He was about to face her in a race, and he had to find a way to stop himself from blowing up everything over and over again. Because it fell on his shoulders. Not hers, not Owen’s. His alone.

So he’d try to make that right. It was all he could do. And in doing that, he could make his brother happy too. Win-win.

And with that, there was nothing more to be done but prepare himself to lose. He just hoped the track was the only place it would happen.

The street was virtually abandoned. Warehouses flanked Kat’s car, and the river lay in front of her, the city reflecting off its surface like stars. The Brooklyn Bridge arched away from her to Manhattan, and music played quietly from her speakers with her windows down, the dash illuminated. She glanced in her rearview, seeing the slice of Kiki and Owen sitting on her trunk, their shadows leaning into each other. Despite herself, she smiled.

Kat had spent the afternoon tuning her car, lowering the pressure in her tires for traction, prepping herself for a fight and a race and a confrontation. One thing she’d never admit aloud — and barely even to herself — was that she was nervous. She didn’t want to see Dillon; she wanted to beat him and bounce.

All she did know was that she would win. The specs on his car were enough to convince her of that certainty, and he should have known it too, should have known better than to dare her to prove it.

Her father had given her the car on her sixteenth birthday, and she’d never forget the feeling of turning the key in the ignition for the very first time. Katsu loved cars, muscle cars especially. When Kat had been a little girl, she had fallen in love with them too, from the romanticized visions of badasses and cars to the regular parade on the strip of hot rods with bright colors and crazy paint jobs. When she’d gotten older, he’d taught her the ins and outs of an engine by rebuilding a ’69 Impala with her — a car that had become her day car, a car that had killed her to leave in Vegas — and the chance to be with her father, to share his hobby with her and only her, was one of the highlights of her childhood.

And when she’d started racing, that was when it had all clicked into place, her feet firmly planted on the path that would carry her through life.

Her first race had ended with her gun pulled on a motherfucker, and it wasn’t the last. They men she raced tried to swindle, cheat, berate, belittle her. All they’d accomplished was making her work harder. Her mother had asked her so many times why she didn’t just quit.

Kat would answer, Because that’s what they want.

The truth was, she loved to race more than anything. No one would take that joy from her just because they were threatened. Because they lost. Because they couldn’t get a visible rise out of her. It was something she shared with her father, and it was something she was good at. The fact that they wanted her to fail just fed her desire to win.

Headlights shone behind her, illuminating the silhouette of her sister and Owen, the thundering engine growing louder until Dillon pulled to a stop next to her, hanging his arm out the window. His face was lit by the glowing dash, planes and shadows and eyes that sought hers in the dark.

Everything about him was different. The soft curve of his lips. The line of his jaw, still hard but without the sharpness she’d seen there before. The lines of his shoulders and arms. Even the air between them.

She had expected a lot of things that night, but the surge of desire was at the bottom of the list.

So she put on a cocky smile and said with a husky voice, “You ready to get your ass kicked?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be, I suppose.” His voice was gravelly too, deep and rumbling like his engine, hot like exhaust, and she almost wanted to keep him talking just to hear it more.

Owen and Kiki slid off her car and walked between them, his arm hanging on her shoulder and hers wound around his waist.

“Good luck with that,” Owen said with a look at Dillon bordering on pity.

Kat laughed, revving her engine and peeling out.

Her heart thumped steadily against her ribs as she pulled up to the light, and a second late, he rolled to a stop next to her. She revved her engine again, watching him with a smile she didn’t want to have. Not that she wanted a fight, but she didn’t want this either. This was dangerous. Because goddamn if he didn’t look good in that shiny black GTO and leather jacket that she bet smelled like heaven with that smile on his face and that look in his eyes.

Dillon was so one-eighty from the man she’d come to know, she felt dizzy.

She looked up at the light just as it turned green, her body shifting as she hit the accelerator and shot out in front of him, leaving behind any chance he’d thought he might have at the starting line. Within seconds, he was far enough behind her, she could see his headlights in her rearview. She smiled, and when she shifted gears, she pulled away once and for all, speeding under the last light with two car lengths between them.

Kat pulled her car over at the edge of the water, and he stopped his car next to er and got out, glancing back at Owen and Kiki walking toward them in the distance.

Dillon made his way around his car, stopping to lean against his passenger door, and Kat lazily draped her elbow from her window, wondering if she looked as smug as she felt.

But he wasn’t mad. He wasn’t combative or defensive.

He was smiling, not with teeth and joy, but with his wide lips closed and a secret behind them.

“Seems I owe you an apology or two.”

“Seems so.”

“I was wrong about you.”

She shrugged and turned her eyes to the river. “Wouldn’t be the first time I was underestimated.”

Dillon was quiet, and when she snuck a glance back at him, his eyes were on his combat boots crossed in front of him. He folded his arms with a nod.

“Well then,” he said as he met her eyes. “I’m sorry for being another asshole at the end of a long line.”

She smiled — this time, not cocky at all. This time, it was soft with a secret of its own. “That’s one apology.”

He laughed, the sound taking her back to that first night, that fleeting moment when she’d found herself in his space like it was the first and last place she’d ever want to be.

“I’m sorry, Kat. I was been a prick, and believe it or not, I didn’t mean to be. You didn’t deserve to be treated the way I treated you, to be spoken to the way I spoke to you.”

“No, I didn’t.”

Another nod. “When I’m mad, when I’m on unsteady ground, my mouth takes over.”

His admissions and honesty had all but disarmed her completely. “I get that. And you weren’t the only one out of line. I was too, and I’m sorry.”

“You’re forgiven.” His voice was so deep and strong, a voice that could command or calm or carry her away.

“So are you.”

They watched each other, the silence between them heavy, their thoughts almost tangible in the space between them.

On that list of her expectations, an apology wasn’t even at the bottom. It hadn’t even made the list at all. She wondered what had happened, what had changed, and how she was supposed to react, what she was supposed to say.

Her body reacted on its own — heart speeding up with his eyes on her like they were, her breath coming a little faster, a little shorter. She scanned his face, which wore a mixture of amusement and humbleness, wondering if this version of Dillon was temporary, if something new would set him off and put them back where they’d been. And she found herself curious and conflicted by a glimmer of hope she felt compelled to keep in the dark.

Dillon broke the quiet between them, his lips tilting into a smirk. “So I feel like I need redemption from … whatever that was. Let’s not call it a race.”

Kat laughed, and his smirk stretched wider.

“Come to a fight.”

“How come?” she asked, playing like she didn’t care. “Wait, did we just become friends?”

“Pretty sure.” He unfolded his arms and stuffed his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket. “I’ve seen you in your element. Come see me in mine.”

Her eyes ran over his messy golden hair, and her fingers itched to touch it. She wondered if it was silky and soft like she imagined.

The silence had gone on too long, and she fumbled for a way to salvage it, hooking her last thought as the color rose in her cheeks.

“I don’t know, Dillon,” she said, looking off toward the river. “I might need to wash my hair.”

“Should I beg? Hands and knees? I’m not above it.”

She pictured him on the pavement and tried not to laugh. “I guess I wouldn’t be opposed to seeing you get your ass kicked in the ring.”

Dillon pushed off his car and closed the space between them, resting his arms on her roof. He hung down, leaning into her window — their faces were inches apart, so close she thought he might be able to hear her heartbeat as it pumped like a piston in her ribcage. She fought for composure, the scent of him, the feel of him, the charge between them drawing her closer.

“I don’t lose, Kat. Ever.”

Her eyes rested on his lips as she said, very softly, “You just did. To me.”

“Not at my game, I don’t.” His gaze was locked on her eyes; she could feel them tethering her. “The fight’s in a couple of days. Owen knows where it is.”

She was ruled by her nerves and her heart, both screaming for him. “All right. I’ll be there.”

They stared at each other in silence, and with a breath, he drew her closer, millimeter by millimeter, her lids fluttering closed and lips on a track for his.

Kiki sneezed, and they both turned to the sound. Her hand rested on her mouth, her eyes wide with apology, and Owen stifled a smile, clearing his throat as he walked toward his brother, who stood.

Kat sat back in her seat and took a deep breath, catching her reflection in her rearview. Her cheeks were pink, her lids heavy and green eyes dilated. No amount of deep breathing could calm her.

“Wow, Dillon. The race was really … something,” Owen said with a laugh.

Dillon chuckled. “Yeah, well, that’ll be the last time I talk shit.”

Kat hung out her window and threw on her hardass, though she felt about as hard as cellophane. “I seriously doubt that.” She waved at Kiki, who smiled with understanding. “See you at home.” Her eyes met Dillon’s again, sending a riot of butterflies through her chest. “And I’ll see you later.”

He smiled down at his shoes but stole a glance back up at her, their eyes meeting for a long moment before she sat back in her seat and sped away as if she could leave thoughts of Dillon behind her.

But they followed her all the same.

The fire crackled at Dita’s side, the sheepskin under her soft and silky, and she toyed with the creamy strands as she flipped the page of her book. The Viking king, Jolgeir, had the kidnapped Hilde captive in the quarters on the ship. He’d just given her a trunk of fancy dresses to wear as an offering — the first sign that he wasn’t a complete brute — which she obviously and obstinately refused.

Dita shook her head.

It was only a matter of time until Hilde gave in, and they all knew it. Every woman was a Hilde to some degree. And the brutish men were always harder to refuse, particularly when they showed their soft underbellies. Like Dillon had.

His hackles were smooth and flat, and he’d lain down at Kat’s feet. And Kat’s heart had softened just a little, just enough.

Dita could relate. When Ares had first come of age, she couldn’t take him seriously. He was a brute too, plain and simple, demanding and commanding and ordering her about, which everyone knew was the absolute worst way to get her to do anything. But the older he had grown, the more he’d affected her, and the more he’d pressed, the harder it had become to refuse the God of War, born of the King of Gods, built of stone and iron and single-minded resolve. For what he desired most was her.

He had pursued her with doggedness unmatched by any god or man she’d known in her long life. There was something to be said for his persistence — he had seen the desire in her as plainly as she saw it in him, and like Hilde, there was no denying it. But she would resist. She would make him wait, make him pursue her in a game that she knew she would lose, a game with no rules.

It was a game they had played for eons, but she still remembered that first night more clearly than the thousands that came after.

* * *

Lanterns swayed in the currents of a gentle breeze, strung across the open space of the wide hall from pillar to ivy-ringed pillar in zigs and zags. The room was golden and the hour late as Aphrodite sipped wine from her chalice with Persephone at her side, the two resting their feet after too long dancing.

Satyrs played music as they danced around the room, the gods dancing with them in a whirl of robes and fur and laughter. A few of the half-goat immortals played flutes and drums, stomping their hooves and bobbing their heads as their tiny horns moved in time to the music.

Even Hera seemed to be enjoying herself. She linked arms with a nymph and spun around, her royal-blue robes swirling around her and her head tilted back in laughter, blond curls bouncing to the beat of a satyr’s hooves on the marble floor.

The alcoves were dark, filled with kissing couples, and she smiled to herself, her work said and done.

Persephone hiccuped and rested her head on Aphrodite’s shoulder. “I love you, Aphrodite. Have I told you?”

Aphrodite laughed. “Many times.”

Persephone lifted her head, the black diamonds in her diadem winking in the candlelight. Her dark hair had been braided and twisted up, and ringlets framed her small, pale face. One eye closed as she pointed at Aphrodite with the index finger of the hand holding her chalice.

“Good,” she said. “Do not forget that.” She jabbed a finger at Aphrodite, who smiled, eyeing the deep red wine as it sloshed violently in the cup.

Hades appeared next to her and took her drink, saving Aphrodite’s robes from certain wreckage. They shared a smile as he set the goblet on a small gilded table before slipping one arm around his wife’s waist and one under the bend of her knees, lifting her easily.

“Well, hello, darling.” Persephone wrapped her arms around his neck.

He kissed her forehead. “Come, love. Let’s get you to bed.”

Persephone giggled, hiccuped, and nuzzled into his neck. “Mmm, bed sounds wonderful.”

With a chuckle and a nod to Aphrodite, he turned to go, leaving her all alone.

She sighed and took another sip of her wine, glancing around the room. Her eyes rested on a nymph and a centaur kissing ardently in one of the dark recesses, and she watched them with her head tilted, trying to make sense of the hands and arms, contemplating the mechanics of the act that would likely follow — and soon, if she were to wager.

From the shadows of the arches that led to the gardens, Ares appeared, and her eyes snapped to his. They were shrouded in the low light, but she could feel them on her, feel the thread that connected her to him so tight and real, as if she could pluck and it would thrum a note that spoke to her very soul.

His was a force she could not deny, no matter how she tried.

She was warm from the wine, her cheeks flushed as he walked toward her with his jaw set. He wore his golden armor; he hadn’t been seen without it since it left the forge. He sat next to her, lips set in a determined smile, and she found she could not break her gaze from his.

Aphrodite blinked and took a breath before setting her lips in a flat, apathetic line. “You should take off that helmet. You look ridiculous.”

She took a sip of her wine, waiting for him to react, which he did. He always did.

His eyes flashed, but otherwise, he betrayed nothing. The two of them always needled each other, but rather than making the other angry, it sparked something essential in them, something vital. They were fire and tinder, hot and destructive, dangerous and comforting.

Ares pulled off his helmet and set it next to him, and when his eyes bore into hers, she gripped the stem of her chalice.

“You play these games,” he said, trailing the backs of his fingers down her bare arm, her skin pricking with gooseflesh in their wake as he looked down at her. “Perhaps I do not wish to play any longer.”

Closer he leaned until her nerves sizzled and hummed in anticipation, and he said against her lips, “Come with me.”

A chill rippled down her spine, and she answered with her voice barely above a whisper, “Yes.”

He stood in a rush of wind and skin and fabric, taking her hand to tow her through the candlelit hallways in the small hours of the morning. To keep up, she had to trot, her robes billowing after her, and when they reached her chambers, he pulled her into the room. She pressed her palm to her stomach, her breath fast and shallow, waiting for him while he closed the doors in the dim room, lit only in firelight.

Aphrodite had no time to think, no time to wonder; the moment the door was closed, he rushed to her, slipping his hand into her hair and pressing his lips to hers in a single motion, a single breath.

She was overcome, overwhelmed, his power and hers winding in a union beyond their wants and wishes, driven by a force unexplained, twisting them together until there was no space between them. Their arms and hands held and touched, lips and tongues sealed and tangled, and it was more than she could bear.

He broke away, still holding her or she would have fallen. With steady fingers, he trailed heat down her neck and to her shoulders, slipping them out of her robes. They fell to the ground in a heap, and he released her, stepping away to drag his eyes over the length of her body.

When his gaze finally came to rest on her eyes, he moved with decision and lifted her up, carrying her to her bed inside sheer curtains. And as he stood at the foot of the bed, she took in the sight of the God of War, eyes burning for her alone, the candlelight twinkling off his armor like distant suns. Deft hands unclasped his red cloak, letting it fall to the ground in a flutter. His chest plate followed, the shimmering gold gone to leave him in his robes, which he untied with a tug. And when they fell away, when he was left naked and exposed, the vision stole a piece of her that would never be returned.

He was trim and lean, the curves and ridges of his body pronounced by the shadows of night. And when he climbed up to meet her, it was only they who existed.

Ares pressed her into the bed with his body, taking her face in his hands, taking her mouth with unexpected tenderness, with reverence and care, with knowing she felt from the tip of her nose, brushing the bridge of his, down to her toes as they brushed against his legs. He touched her as if he’d touched her a thousand times, with sure hands and lips that said without speaking that all he wished for and all he wanted was in his arms.

With a trail of kisses, he moved down her neck, between her breasts, taking his time with the curve in his palm and his lips and tongue against her peaked nipple. Down further he went, past the soft swells of her stomach and to the bend of her hip, hooking her thighs over his shoulders. And when he kissed her again, he took her, burned through her, and she was helpless, a slave to his touch.

Time seemed to slow, marked only by the sweeping of his tongue and the stroke of his hand, the sway of her hips and the whispers of desire.

When he broke away to kiss up her body once more, she reached for his face, meeting his lips with her own, pulling him down on her until he settled his body between her legs, the length of him pressed against her, sending her hips rolling, her back arching, seeking him, all of him. His crown rested only a hair’s breadth from her aching core, and she angled to force him in. But he kept her wanting — close enough to feel him but without the relief of connection.

She felt his smiling lips against the skin of her neck, and she whimpered, frenzied and frantic.

“Please,” she whispered.

“Say it,” he commanded, his crown grazing her hot center once more.

She raked her nails across his back, twisting her hips.

“My name. Say it.” It was a groan and a growl, an undeniable demand.

And when she did, he gave her what she’d asked for.

With a flex of his hips, he slid into her, filling her up, and the sigh that passed her lips was heavy and long and sated. When their bodies were a seam, he paused, meeting her eyes and holding them. And then he moved.

He moved with grace and force, with resolution and purpose. That purpose was to claim her, and she could not resist. He took what he wanted as he gave her everything. With every wave of his body, her own hummed his song, and when she reached the edge, she was lost, more lost than she could ever know in that moment.

Ares was right behind her with a thrust that sent a shock up her spine, her body pulsing around his, his pulsing inside of her, the two of them joined, their bond forged in the stars. And as they slowed, he kissed her lips again so sweetly that years later, she would look back on the moment and wonder if it had been real or imagined.

* * *

And so it had gone on for years and decades and millennia until Adonis was killed. His death had damaged Dita, torn the fabric of her soul, and she’d never been able to mend it. Suspicion was high, though there was no proof that Ares had been involved, and so she’d thrown herself into Adonis, spending her time and energy with him in Elysium so she could avoid Ares.

It didn’t always work, but it helped.

Guilt niggled at her. She’d caved so easily to Ares this time, and now that the gates were open, there would be no closing them. Hilde wouldn’t be able to either once she got started, and neither would Kat.

There was no reversing gravity.

The elevator dinged, and a moment later, Ares stormed into her library with a ticking jaw and hot eyes.

He’d seen the race too.

Her smile was anything but innocent. “Come to tell me how brilliant I am?”

“Hardly. I know you think you’ve got this on lock,” he said as he walked around the couch, fists tight, the veins in his hands catching her attention. They were such strong hands. “But you have no idea what I’ve got planned. Don’t get comfortable.”

She rolled onto her back and held his eyes, shifting her thighs, bending her waist in a seductive curve. Her dress was short and gauzy, and she knew just what he could see and what he couldn’t.

“But Ares, I do so love to be comfortable.”

That was all it took. With a growl, he descended on her with hard lips and rough hands. There was no care, no tender touch, no devotion or reverence. He took what he wanted, caring little for what she wished for or desired.

This was the Ares she knew.

But she didn’t need anything more than his attention and his body, taking what she needed from him in kind, offering nothing but her body in return. Not that he required an offer. He was a thief and a savage. But she couldn’t find it in herself to care.

They burned until their bodies were spent and the fire was reduced to glowing embers. She lay tucked into his side, her head resting on his chest, listening to the beat of his heart like a war drum against her ear, feeling sated and sentimental.

“What are you thinking about?” he asked, the sound distorted, half through her ear against his chest, half through the air between them.

She laughed softly and propped her chin on her hand. “That has to be the most cliché post-coital question in the history of the world.”

“True.” He folded his arm behind his head to smile at her. “But I’ve known you long enough. I can almost read your mind. Just wondering if I’m right.”

“I was just thinking back to our first time.”

“Mmm.” He brushed her hair from her face. “I wasn’t going to wait another night for you. Not then, not now.”

Her heart skipped and squeezed. She couldn’t say she was glad he hadn’t waited — not then and not now — but she couldn’t say she was mad about it either. He’d given her love, given her himself, given her children and companionship. But he’d also hurt her, damaged her, caused her pain and trouble and frustration.

There was no middle ground with him. There never would be.

So she smiled at him and sighed.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

He didn’t speak right away but watched her face, his fingers toying with the ends of her hair. “Why did you choose him?”

The question with no answer, the question he’d asked so many times. But she had no comfort to offer.

“We’ve both had mortal lovers,” she said. “Why does Adonis matter so much to you?”

“Because he matters so much to you.” His voice was soft and low with hurt and futility in the undercurrent. “And when he died, you left me.”

She stiffened and sat, drawing her knees to her chest with her back to him, as if she could hide. “I don’t want to talk about him, Ares.”

He moved, and she felt his rough fingers trailing down the soft skin of her back. “All right.”

Ares pressed a kiss to her shoulder, and the emotion that rose in her chest came from nowhere, carrying sadness and wishes and misspent hope.

She turned — he was propped on his hand, curved around her body, and she mirrored him like a nesting doll. With one hand, she cupped his face.

With her eyes and voice and words, she begged, “I don’t want to talk about tomorrow or yesterday. I just want to think about now. Can you give that to me?”

“I can,” he answered, turning to press a kiss into her palm. “I’ll give you anything.”

And the hardest thing about it all, the thing that broke her heart when she kissed his lips, was that she knew it was true.

But he’d take it all, too.