The amount of time it had taken Kat to get ready for the fight bordered on outrageous.

She glanced in the rearview as she drove through Brooklyn with Kiki to pick up Owen, her green eyes brighter than usual, lined with black, winged on the ends.

Kiki had found it amusing, to put it mildly. She’d sat on Kat’s bed as she tried on no less than four outfits, grinning and cracking jokes. She’d then sat on the counter in the bathroom, needling Kat as she curled her hair in big, loose waves. And now she sat in the passenger seat, her eyes twinkling with all her hopes for Kat and Dillon on her face as plainly as her nose.

“You’re excited,” she said.

Kat rolled her eyes again. She’d rolled them enough that night that she was surprised she hadn’t sprained anything.

“No, I’m not. Tonight’s not a big deal.”

“Right, right. Sure.”

“I’m only going because it’s only fair to see him fight after I beat him so badly the other night. So,” Kat said, steering the conversation away from herself, “are you feeling better about the drama from last night?”

Kiki sighed, shaking her head. “I’m so stupid. I shouldn’t have flipped out like I did. I’m just … I don’t know. He’s too good to be true, and I feel like I’m just waiting for something bad to happen.”

“I don’t think Owen could hurt you if he wanted to. It’s not in his nature.”

“I know. That’s the crazy part.” She didn’t say anything else, and she didn’t have to.

“I wonder if that crazy bitch will be at the fight.”

“I hope not.” Kiki scowled, folding her arms. “I will beat her ass.”

Kat’s lips quirked. “So ballsy. Maybe you should leave your earrings in the car, just in case you need to throw down.”

“Nah, I’ll just have you hold them for me,” she volleyed on a laugh. “I’m really glad you decided to come tonight.”

“You and Owen have been working overtime on us, huh?”

“It wasn’t all that hard. Really, we didn’t do much of anything. No amount of plotting can override Dillon’s dickishness.”

Kat laughed. “Too real. Were you and Owen already going to the fight tonight?”

“No. Owen doesn’t like to watch Dillon fight. I think it brings up too many memories. Plus — it’s not exactly legal. There are apparently quite a few unsavory characters at these things.”

“Nothing I’m not used to.”

That didn’t stop her mind from wandering to what Dillon had said about the fight and hoped it wouldn’t be too hard to watch. A knot twisted in her stomach at the thought of Dillon getting hit, hurt, beaten.

She stopped herself.

This is not a big deal. You aren’t interested. It’s just a fight, and you’ll be home and in bed by ten. Eleven, tops.

It was strange that Owen didn’t go to Dillon’s fights, as close as they were, and she wondered why, thinking back to something Kiki had said as she pulled up to a light.

“What did you mean when you said there were too many memories for Owen?”

“Promise to act surprised if he tells you?”

She glanced at her sister, curious. “I promise.”

Kiki looked down at her hands as they flipped her phone over and over again in her lap. “Dillon’s dad used to beat him. It’s how he got started fighting. He’d been fighting since he was a kid, for his life and Owen’s.”

Someone honked behind her, and she realized the light had changed, her mind still turning over what Kiki had said. With that bit of information, the separate pieces of Dillon clicked together, and the picture finally made sense.

She imagined him as a boy, those eyes like icy-hot fire, his body small and determined and coiled, fists up to defend himself against a grown man.

The vision made her feel sick.

She took a deep breath but couldn’t dismiss the image. She couldn’t feel anything but sadness for him and wrongness for judging him, not knowing where he’d been, what he’d endured.

“Makes you look at him differently, knowing,” Kiki said, her eyes out the window as they pulled onto Dillon’s street.

“I can’t even begin to understand what that was like.”

“Me either. All we know is love and devotion from our parents. Owen and Dillon lived in fear every day from the moment their mother died until they moved out on their own. And Dillon bore the brunt of it. It’s no wonder he’s broken.”

Kat had no words to respond, and fortunately she didn’t have to. They pulled up to the curb, and Owen trotted out to meet them. When Kiki opened the door, she stepped into him for a kiss, and then they were climbing into the car — Owen in the back, Kiki in the bucket.

And just like that, they were thundering toward the warehouse and into the arms of the dark of night to the place where Dillon waited to use the sins of his father as currency for survival.

The warehouse was dark and quiet where Dillon sat, winding a wrap around his wrist and palm, the strip of fabric slipping through his fingers, mimicking a hum he felt in every cell, every atom. It was second nature, a rhythmic routine that quieted his thoughts, brought the world down to a pinhole, small and distant.

Around the fabric went, around wrist, around palm, back again, leaving his knuckles exposed.

He watched his hands weave the fabric in a dance, thinking of nothing else with a still, quiet mind. Further he slipped into his mind, to the cage.

He let the beast out on its thick, heavy chain, and it roared its freedom under the surface of his skin. His control was paper-thin as always, his hand on the chain owning only the illusion that it was strong enough to hold on.

And the beast paced and watched.

Kat’s palms were damp, hands shoved into the pockets of her leather jacket, the sound of her heels clicking on the cement warehouse floor ominous, garishly loud, like a death march. Kiki and Owen were ahead of her, moving from light to dark to light again under the industrial bulbs that hung from the ceiling in cages.

The tension was almost unbearable.

She could feel the anxious energy from the crowd at the end of the tunnel, carried on the buzz of their voices.

It agitated her. She knew the energy well enough, but always when she could temper it with confidence and trust of her skill. Here, she was at the mercy of Dillon without knowing he would overcome, without the assurance and understanding of his skill.

She wanted him to win. She wanted him to win so badly, the thought of him losing made her want to crawl out of her skin.

The tunnel opened up to a warehouse space filled with people clustered in the darkness around the ring. Floodlights on posts were the only lights in the warehouse, and they shone so bright, so intensely, everything in their beams looked white, blown out, overexposed. As her eyes adjusted, she saw the ring wasn’t white at all but blue with red ropes. Folding chairs sat in opposing corners. She wondered which would be Dillon’s.

As they approached the edge of the crowd, Owen cast a furtive glance at Kiki before pulling her into his side. Kiki passed the look back to Kat, reaching for her hand. And then they were part of the throng, weaving their way through as faces turned to watch her and Kiki pass with shark smiles and dark eyes.

They came to a stop near the edge of the ring, standing close to each other as Kat’s anxiety mounted. She’d brought her gun — it rested in the back of her jeans, hidden by her jacket — only out of habit, sure it wasn’t necessary.

She was certain now she’d been wrong.

The noise grew as the time came closer to the fight, and Kat scanned the walls, looking for entrances, wondering where Dillon was, where he would come from.

Owen leaned between the girls’ ears. “He’ll be on this side. You okay?”

They nodded, and he did the same, his face drawn as he pressed a kiss into Kiki’s hair and turned to the ring.

Cheers rose like a tidal wave when Dillon emerged from a passage on the far side of the room, moving like a cat, emerging from the darkness and into the blinding lights of the ring. His hair shone, his broad, naked chest glistening with a thin sheen of sweat. His eyes were points of ice under the eaves of his low brows, his lips flat, jaw square. She followed the curves of his arms, her eyes catching on the tattoo winding its way around his biceps and to his forearm.

A diamondback snake twisted around the thick cords of muscle, the rattle near his shoulder and head on his forearm, mouth open to strike.

He was terrifying. Terrifying and magnificent and as deadly as the snake on his arm.

Dillon moved to the corner near the chair, hopping in place, stretching his neck from side to side, while Brian looked on. Kat did too. Her eyes were locked on Dillon, but he didn’t see her. He didn’t seem to see anyone at all.

A referee stepped into the ring, and from across the room, another fighter emerged. He was huge, a mass of muscles, his face scarred in a tear down one side. Every step he took was menacing, the curl of his lip and glint in his eye telegraphing intent to destroy. When he ducked under the ropes and into the ring, the din of the crowd climbed higher.

He was bigger than Dillon, which was crazy in itself because Dillon was a beast. Dillon had said he never lost, but as he stood in the ring with that giant, she wasn’t sure if his streak would last. Because all streaks had an end; it was a law of nature.

Owen’s voice was in her ear. “Don’t worry. He hasn’t lost in years.”

She jumped, smoothing her face. “I wasn’t worried.”

He laughed and stepped back behind Kiki.

The referee waved both men over and spoke to them, though she couldn’t hear. Through the speech, Dillon and the giant, whom she’d learned was named Boon, stared each other down, shaking hands with no friendship between them.

And then the fight was on.

They circled each other with focus so intense, a bomb could detonate nearby and they’d never know.

Boon made the first move. He swung heavy, the arch of his hand through the air fast, but not fast enough. Dillon leaned back and out of the way with absolute sureness, and Boon’s fist sliced through the air and into nothing.

Dillon moved almost too quickly for her to see, stepping into him with a hook to the kidney. Spittle flew out of Boon’s mouth, and when they circled again, she saw his skin from the blow was already an alarming shade of red-violet.

Around they went, Dillon’s fists near his jaw, dancing around Boon, who couldn’t seem to land a punch. His fists swung big and slow — no, not slow. It was just that Dillon moved so fast, everything else seemed to be in slow motion. With every swing, Dillon ducked and bobbed out of the way, anticipating every move. And every time Boon’s fist flew past, Dillon would throw a punch in the rebound, fast as lightning.

Boon shook his head, blood flowing freely from his cut-up face, and when he narrowed his eyes, Kat’s stomach dropped. He feigned a punch, and when Dillon dodged, Boon’s other fist flew, connecting with Dillon’s nose. He wheeled back, the crowd screaming and whistling and whooping, but Dillon almost instantly caught his balance, spinning around to face Boon, unfazed, even with blood spilling down his face.

But it was Boon’s turn to anticipate with another punch, an uppercut that sent Dillon arching backward from the force.

He staggered back — Kat wasn’t breathing, couldn’t move, couldn’t blink, couldn’t look away — and when he caught himself, when he turned again, he was determined. He was raging. He was murderous.

His body tensed, coiled and indomitable, lips bent in a sneer as he stepped into Boon, stepped into a punch perfectly timed, perfectly placed into his temple.

The giant spun a hundred and eighty degrees and fell like Goliath, landing flat on his stomach.

He didn’t get up.

He didn’t even move.

The crowd’s roar was deafening.

Dillon paced around him in a circle, stalking him like an animal, his eyes never breaking the connection to the man on the ground as Boon’s manager and the referee closed ranks, checking the man’s pulse. No one seemed alarmed. They just rolled him over and waved a few people over to help. And then the referee snatched Dillon’s fist and held it up in the air.

Kat took her first real breath since he’d stepped into the ring. When she glanced at Kiki, her sister’s mouth was hanging open like a fish, and Owen’s face was tight, lips flat, brows knit together. And then she looked back to Dillon.

But he was gone.

For a millisecond, she thought it had all been a dream. She craned her neck, scanning the crowd, catching sight of his wide back as he made his way through the crowd across the ring from them, Brian on his heels.

The crowd around them quieted down as they began exchanging money, with bursts of occasional obscenities or names shouted and eruptions of raucous laughter. A group of men broke into a fight near them, and Owen grabbed the sisters, hauling them toward the back of the warehouse and away.

Dillon’s ears rang.

He was back in the room where he’d started, feeling like he’d lost time, though he remembered everything. The lights, blinding. The smell, acrid and bitter. Every swing. Every hit.

He ran his towel over his face, distantly surprised when he saw it was smeared with his own blood. Then he was at the sink, running his hands under the cool water, splashing it on his face.

When he looked in the mirror, he saw only the beast, like he was watching himself from a long way away, tugging on that chain to put him back in his cage, to come back. But he dabbed at his face out of habit, wiping away the mess, making him look a little more like himself.

In appearance at least.

He stripped down and redressed automatically, pulling on his shirt last.

Footsteps behind him. A burst of adrenaline.

He swung around, his body an arch, fists clenched, eyes savage.

But Owen stood in front of him with a cheerful face and worried eyes, his body tight and ready to move just as well as Dillon’s.

“Hey, buddy.”

Those words. His brother’s voice. A tentative hand on his shoulder.

And the beast turned and walked into the cage on his own.

“Let’s see your nose,” Owen said, relaxing as Dillon relaxed, his adrenaline thinning out with every heavy heartbeat. “Broken?”

“No.” He tilted his chin, moving his face to display his profile from both angles.

Kat stood behind Owen. Dillon hadn’t seen her, but when he did, when he finally did, she was all he could see. Everything was in high relief — the tiny freckles on her nose, the curve of her lips, the sound of her breath, as if he could hear it from across the room. But it was her eyes that held him — jade green, dotted with flecks of moss — as she watched him like a cat, a black cat swathed in leather and warning and wild, regal silence.

She was a beast in her own right.

He grabbed his bag without looking away from her — her eyes, those eyes — and moved to her side, closing his hand around hers, not surprised when she didn’t pull away.

“Come with me,” he said, a command that wouldn’t be ignored.

And she didn’t. She followed him out into the night where they belonged.

They sped through the streets in silence.

Kat’s heart thumped hard enough to send tremors through the fabric of her shirt as she listened to the hum of Dillon’s GTO. She could feel when he was about to shift every time, up and down, finding herself satisfied when he did just as she would. There was something poetic about the way he moved — from the ball of his gearshift to his wheel, the motion of his feet. The way he touched that GTO like he was seducing it, like he was worshipping it, and she wondered if he would tune to her as he did his car, if he would know just when to shift, if he would speed her away into the night.

The streetlights lit his face, only to pass it back into darkness every few seconds. Her eyes traced his profile against the black night outside the window — disheveled blond hair; the bridge of his long nose, bent slightly where it had once been broken; the angles and curves of his lips; his square chin, and the line of his jaw smattered with stubble.

He was more than a man, in a league and a class something all its own, and no man could ever hold the raw power and command as the one sitting next to her.

Dillon pulled into his garage, killed the engine, and turned to her, the leather of his seat squeaking quietly.

His lips turned in the smallest of smiles. “I told you I didn’t lose.”

She found she couldn’t quite breathe with him looking at her like that, with him leaning toward her like he was.

“Dillon, I’ve never seen anything like you in my life.”

His eyes, so sharp, so hot. “I could say the same about you. Even if you did doubt me.”

“Respect earned,” she said softly.

“That means a lot, coming from you.” He leaned closer, his eyes on her lips.

“Does it?”

“More than you know.”

He slipped his hand into her hair, stopping her heart, her lids fluttering closed as he pulled her toward him —

Kat’s car rumbled up to the curb behind them, sending the two away from each other and nearly out of their seats, heads swiveling to look through the back window.

And just like that, the moment was gone.

He offered a smile as they turned to open their doors, and Kat sucked in a deep breath, adjusting her leather jacket as she climbed out.

Owen and Kiki were walking up the drive, his arm slung around her shoulders, his other hand in his jacket pocket.

“Hey, you crazy kids. I think it’s about time for the obligatory celebratory drink.” He slapped Dillon on the shoulder when they walked past to the stairs. “Say that three times fast,” he called over his shoulder.

Kat and Dillon smiled at each other over the roof of the car, and they walked around it together, arms touching when they met, the two only parting when they had to.

Owen stood in a beautiful kitchen, gathering supplies for drinks, and Kiki took a seat at the island bar. Everything in the place was brand-new. The hardwood floors gleamed, the cabinets and counters were modern and sleek, and the furniture was expensive and simple. He had money and plenty of it, not particularly surprising if he hadn’t lost in years. Plural. She wondered if he bet on himself. She would if she were him.

It seemed they had winning in common; that much was certain.

Kat took the stool next to Kiki, but Dillon hitched a thumb over his shoulder. “I’m gonna take a quick shower. Don’t have too much fun without me.”

“We’ll try to hold back,” Owen said as he poured Jameson over ice into three glasses. “You ladies need a mixer?”

“Yes, please,” Kiki answered sweetly.

“I’m good,” Kat said.

Owen raised an eyebrow. “Ah, a woman after my own heart.”

He offered her a glass, and she took it with an accepting nod.

Owen popped open a can of root beer and poured it into Kiki’s glass.

She eyed him. “You’re kidding, right?”

He handed it over. “Nope.”

Kiki took the glass, and when she tentatively sipped it, her eyes opened wide in astonishment. “Wow.”

“You’re welcome.” He winked and turned to Kat. “So what’d you think about tonight?”

Kat sipped her whiskey, thinking about Dillon’s lips. “It was … surprising.”

“It’s weird, huh? I always say it’s one of those things you can’t quite explain until you see it.”

“It was intense. The energy was just so much, overwhelming. And the moment when Boon hit Dillon … I don’t even know. I can’t believe he could just take that. And the way he moved — is it strange to say it was beautiful?”

Owen chuckled. “No, I get that. It’s horribly, gracefully beautiful. A symphony of violence.”

“I didn’t think I’d find it as exciting as I did.”

“Yeah, well, Dillon is good at what he does,” Owen said as Dillon entered the room again. “Speak of the devil.” He picked up his drink and headed for the stairs. “Let’s go to the roof.”

Dillon was first up the stairs, and Kat followed, but when they rounded the landing to take the next flight, Owen said, “Kiki, hang on. I forgot, I have a surprise for you.”

Kat looked back and raised an eyebrow. Owen wrapped his hand around Kiki’s and urged her down the stairs with a none-too-innocent smile.

“Don’t worry,” he said when he caught Kat’s expression. “We’ll be up in a few.”

She narrowed her eyes but turned to follow Dillon up the stairs, and when she stepped onto the deck, she drew a breath.

Low lights mounted on the beams of the railing around the roof illuminated the edges of the space with the softest of light, and the planks of the wooden flooring stretched from corner to corner. Floor pillows were spread around a low table in the middle, like the perfect place to read a book or drink a beer after a long day.

But that wasn’t what she couldn’t stop staring at.

It was the Brooklyn Bridge off in the distance, stretching away in arches of strings that looked like a loom, looked as if it were pliable, not made of steel and concrete. The river shone, the city climbing the sky in towers of lights to meet the stars.

She hadn’t realized she’d walked all the way to the rail until Dillon joined her. She turned her face to his, her heart full of wonder.

But he smiled, laying his hand — it was strong, sturdy, solid, real — on the small of her back.

“Dillon, this place is amazing.”

“Thanks,” he said, smirking. “Getting punched in the face on a regular basis has its perks.”

“Not to be crass, but I had no idea you could make this kind of money.”

He laughed at that. “I’m sure you don’t do so bad. Do you bet on yourself?”

“Every time. I wondered the same about you.”

“Every time.”

He was looking at her like that again, like he was going to kiss her, and she looked back to the city.

“So where’d you learn to fight like that?”

Dillon turned, leaning on the railing next to her, gazing at the horizon. “My dad.”

Her stomach flipped when she remembered too late what Kiki had told her. “Oh?” was all she could think to say.

“Although that makes it sound like he taught me. Unless you count him whaling on me as teaching, in which case I had a formal education.”

Kat was glad she’d already known so she could shake that off. “Mine taught me how to race and gave me a gun and a car when I turned sixteen. Violent beginnings all around, huh?”

Dillon seemed relieved she hadn’t pressed the topic of his father or shown him pity. “You have a gun?” He gave her a look that edged incredulous.

“Please tell me you’re not shocked. Is it all that shocking that I would own a gun and know how to use it?”

He chuckled. “No, actually. Not at all.”

“You have your fists to protect you in your line of work. In mine … there’s no way I could survive on brute strength. And in my line of work, when you’re a woman who wins, it’s not always taken well. Three cheers for the underdog.” She shrugged. “They always seem surprised, even the ones I’ve beaten more than once, like it was a fluke. You’d think I would have carved out a place for myself, and in some ways, I guess I have. But in others … well, there’s just no winning. Sometimes, I wonder if I’m cursed or something,” she said with a laugh and a sip of her drink.

“Well, they’re fools if they can’t respect what you do.”

She smiled.

“So, do I even want to know what your dad does to keep you so well stocked in race cars and firearms?”

“No, you probably don’t.”

He laughed again, and she realized she’d heard him laugh more that night than she’d heard before.

“I wanted to tell you again that I really am sorry about … well, about how I acted. At first, you know,” he rambled. “I’ve always looked out for Owen, and if I can save him pain, I’ll do whatever I have to. But I was wrong about Kiki. And I was wrong about you.”

She looked down at her drink and back up at him. “I get that. Kiki just got out of a bad relationship. A really bad one. I wasn’t ready to see her with anyone else, but it wasn’t about me. It just took me a minute to realize.”

He turned and leaned against the rail, putting his back to the city. “Seems we have more in common than either of us wanted to admit.”

“Seems that way.”

She turned too, resting her elbow on the rail, stepping closer, and he tucked her hair behind her ear, the smallest thing, his fingers tracing the line of her jaw. And then he reeled her in again, the space between them shrinking, her breath still and lips tingling.

A car rumbled beneath them, and Dillon’s eyes went wide.

“That’s my fucking car.”

They shot down the stairs, passing the kitchen counter where Kat’s keys lay, and into the empty garage to confirm that Owen and Kiki were in fact gone. The two stared out into the alley in silence.

“I think we’ve been ditched,” she said flatly.

“It would seem.”

She turned to face him, glancing sidelong at the door back into the house. “You know, I really should go,” she said. She didn’t mean it.

Dillon took a step into her and cupped her neck, his thumbs on her cheeks and body nearly touching hers. She could feel him like the gap had been closed already.

“Stay,” he breathed into her mouth.

And she swallowed the word, the decision made.

One shift. That was all it took.

Their lips connected with a brush, then a crash, made a seam, opened up. His tongue slipped into her mouth at the same moment his fingers tightened, pulling her into him, pushing deeper into her. And she let him in with relief and surprise, with want she hadn’t realized fully, not until that kiss. The kiss. The kiss that would never end, just kept going on and on with roaming hands and bodies twisting around each other like ivy.

His hands were in her hair, up and down her back, on her face, tilting it to give him more room, to let him in deeper, deeper still. The sound of her heart beating coupled with their breath in rhythm, from nose to cheek and back again. Because even their breaths had twisted together, as if the base, elemental pieces of them sought each other just as intently as the rest of them.

He broke the kiss with the downward tilt of his chin, eyes closed, forehead against hers. She couldn’t catch her breath, couldn’t say no, didn’t want to. Not anymore. Not now that he’d earned her respect and respected her in kind.

Maybe he was strong enough for her. Maybe he could be the one to temper her.

Maybe she could temper him, too.

“Tell me you still want to leave,” he whispered, trailing the tip of his nose against the bridge of hers.

But she couldn’t. She couldn’t say anything at all. So she kissed him instead.

It was softer than she’d intended, more tender than she’d meant, telling him more than she wanted to say. It was an admission to more than he’d asked.

He breathed her in, kissed her slowly, matched her. Accepted her admission and gave his own.

The kiss never sped, but it deepened as kisses do, her body arching into his, his arching over hers, his lips — strong and demanding and knowing lips — moving with hers, telegraphing what he wanted, what he wished for.

Her.

He reached down to grab her and hitch her up, guiding her legs around his waist, the kiss continuing. Maybe it would go on forever, maybe she’d live there, in his arms and hands and mouth, until the end. His hands were on her ass, his chin lifted, her hair spilling around them like a curtain. He was so strong, she didn’t have to hang on. She cupped his jaw and kissed him on and on as he carried her inside, up the stairs, to his dark room.

The world tipped on its side when he laid her in his bed and his hand moved up her thigh, hips pinning her, the weight of him against her heavy and right, and the kiss lived on and on.

He was the one to break away again, the one to look down at her with heavy lids and swollen lips. She watched him as his eyes moved over her face, as his thumb brushed the curve of her bottom lip.

He was a man of multitudes, of hardness and softness, of venom and tenderness. He was a man of power but not as powerful as he knew and more vulnerable than he’d admit. She knew this. She knew this because she was this.

And when he met her eyes, he saw her. Not for what she showed him, but for what she didn’t.

His name was a whisper on her lips, his hair silken strands between her twisting fingers as she pulled him down, meeting him halfway.

Undressing her became his sole purpose, sliding his big hand into her leather jacket, lingering for a moment on her breast, holding the swell of it in his palm, his thumb grazing her nipple, tight and unconcealed by the thin lace of her bra or the loose cotton tank. He slipped the jacket off one shoulder, and she lifted up to sit — more kissing … God, the kissing — shrugging out of her jacket and moving her hands under his shit, feeling the hardness of his body, the ridges and valleys of his muscles.

His fingers pushed the straps of her tank over the curves of her shoulders until it pooled around her waist. Next were her bra straps, first one, then the other. His eyes were on his hands as he pushed the lace aside, took her breast in his hand and felt the weight of it, admired the curve of it, lowered his lips to her nipple to take it into his mouth, to taste her.

She watched him through lids nearly closed, legs around his waist, fingers in his hair.

He moved up her body when he was through to kiss her again, though his hand stayed where it was. Her palms rested against his chest, skated down the hardness of his body and to the hem of his shirt and under, the softness of his skin against her fingertips like silk. The hiss through his teeth when she dipped her fingers into the band of his jeans was a sound she wanted to hear again and again.

But before she could make him, he broke away and climbed off the end of the bed, reaching behind him to pull off his shirt before extending his hand.

She took it, confused as he pulled her to stand at the foot of the bed, wondering why he wasn’t kissing her still, wondering why his shirt was gone and her hands weren’t on him.

But when she slowed down her mind enough to meet his eyes and really look, she understood.

Dillon stood before her, a man painted in shadows and moonlight with eyes heavy with worship and possession. One hand reached for her, brushing a strand of hair from her face, the tips of his fingers grazing her cheek so lightly, she wondered if she’d imagined it. Those fingers skimmed her shoulder, pushing her hair back so he could see her. They moved down her neck, across her collarbone, down and around the swell of her breast and between them to her heart that thumped wildly with anticipation.

Every move was controlled, every motion a signature of his body on hers, as if to say, This is mine, all that I see, all that I touch.

Her tank and bra hung around her ribs, and he hooked his fingers in them and pulled them over her head, her hair spilling over her naked shoulders and breasts. He knelt before her, his eyes following his hands as they skated down the curves of her body. And then his fingers moved to the button of her jeans, popping it open, and when he unzipped her pants with agonizing slowness, when he dragged her pants down the length of her long legs, it was all she could do not to drop to her knees so she could touch him. But it wasn’t her turn. Not yet.

She’d get her chance.

He looked up her body, the picture of calm, the picture of restraint, the picture of command and demand and acquiescence.

Yes, he was a man of multitudes, and he would give himself to her just as readily as he would take her.

Take me, take me, take me.

And as if he’d heard her benediction, he did.

His eyes moved down her body as his hands found her thighs, cupped her ass, squeezed. His lids closed, and his lips found the soft skin so low on her belly, low enough that she gasped at the contact. His hot mouth demanded her attention even more than his hands that kneaded and squeezed, more than his fingers that tugged her panties over the swell of her ass and down. That mouth took more flesh, his hand guiding her thigh to rest on his shoulder, his fingers spreading her open.

Shallow breaths, the anticipation too much, her eyes knowing what they saw, her brain knowing what would happen, her hands in his hair, her heart tight, her core tight, so tight, and then there was nothing but his mouth closing over her center.

She sucked in a breath with a snap of her lungs, hanging on, her leg on his shoulder flexing, holding him closer. A rumbling moan against her core, a whimpering moan from her lips, his hands on her ass again, pressing her against his mouth.

It had been too long, so long. So long since she’d been wanted like this, been touched like this. Too soon, too soon she was too close, her body pulsing once, her hips rocking against him, not wanting to stop, but wishing she were full, wishing to be filled with him.

She pulsed again.

His lips disappeared, leaving her cold, leaving her aching.

He stood, his eyes promising her he’d give her what she needed, his hands moving deftly to rid him of his jeans. And then his hands were in her hair, his lips on hers again, and the length of his body was against hers. And then he laid her down, kissing her as desperately as she was kissing him, breaking only to stretch for the nightstand in an arch of muscle as she panted, waiting.

Another kiss, too brief, and then he was kneeling between her legs, eyes pinning her down as he ripped the packet open and gripped his shaft, rolling the condom on, stroking himself once, twice as she watched.

He nestled between her thighs, nudging them open wider, pressing his crown against her slick center, lowering his lips to hers. Her hips rolled and arched, needing him, needing the weight of him. And when she whispered a plea, he took a breath that stopped hers and flexed his hips, filling her up.

For a second — for one long, glorious second — neither of them moved other than the gentle motion of their brushing noses, of their sweeping lips, their bodies a seam. And when he moved, it was with power and grace, with resolve and release. He took from her what he wanted, but he gave himself to her. Give and take. Flex and release, wave after wave, rocking into her, until she let go, let herself go with a cry and a shudder, gripping his body with hers.

Another pump of his hips, then another, and he came with a sound low in his throat and hands twisted in her hair hard enough to hurt, caged in his arms.

Caged. And she didn’t want to escape.

Perry fanned herself, cheeks pink, eyes on Kat and Dillon. “I love them. Absolutely love.” At seemingly nothing, she shot up in her seat. “Wait, did you just win?”

Dita laughed from the couch next to her. “Oh no. One night won’t do it, but it would be a record if I won so quickly. It’s not love, not just yet.”

Perry dropped back into the seat, folding her arms. “Well, nuts. Could you imagine the look on Ares’s face if you’d won just now?”

“Yes, actually. I live for that look. It’s my favorite part of competing with him. Cherry on the sundae.”

“Pretty sure I know what the ice cream is.”

“I’m pretty sure you do too,” Dita said on a laugh.

“Gods, when you two first got together, you were inseparable. Literally. Like those National Geographic specials on animals that mate for an inordinate amount of time.”

“I couldn’t help myself. He took me by surprise in the best way.”

“You’ve mentioned this.” Perry paused, watching Dita through the silence. “Have you been to Elysium?”

Her smile faded. “No.”

“Will you go back?”

Dita sighed. If only. “I suppose I will at some point. But why waste my time? That argument was proof that things won’t be easily mended. Plus, it’s giving me an ulcer.”

“You can’t get an ulcer,” Perry corrected.

“You know what I mean.”

“I do.” Another stretch of silence passed by. “And you’re not really alone, are you?”

“I am, and I’m not,” Dita said, the words hollow in the middle. “It’s been a long time since Ares and I have been together. Ages.”

“Seems to me like you’re making up for all that lost time. Horndoggies.”

“Ha, ha. Three times in six days isn’t even close to the record.”

Perry snorted. “How is he?”

“Same as always, but …” She looked down at her nails. “Better. He’s softer, more open. Affectionate. And his admissions—” She sighed. “Something has changed, and I wonder what Adonis has to do with it. The rift between us benefits Ares, and he’s taking the opening. I think he’s playing for keeps.”

“He always has where you’re concerned.”

Dita met Perry’s eyes and asked quietly, suddenly, “Do you think Ares killed Adonis?”

The question seemed to catch Perry off guard. “I don’t know. But it seems likely.”

Dita swallowed her fears. “Apollo wouldn’t have gone so far. I don’t know how I know, but I do, and I think I always have. But there’s no proof. All I have is Apollo’s admission, and I’ve clung to it for thousands of years because it’s easier than the alternative.”

“You’re sure?”

Dita exhaled, but the vise on her heart remained. “No.”

“If Ares killed Adonis,” she asked delicately, “do you really want to know?”

“Of course,” she answered without thinking, realizing the moment she’d said it that she didn’t. She didn’t want to know at all. “No,” she added, resigned. “I don’t. If he did, if I knew without a doubt that he’d murdered Adonis, that he’d been lying to me all this time, I don’t know what I’d do. I don’t know what it would mean or how I’d ever recover.”

Perry assessed her before nodding. “Well, think about whether or not you really want the answer. And if you do, we’ll figure it out once and for all.”

Dita looked down at Bisoux sleeping in her lap, but her eyes saw nothing.

The last weeks without Adonis were the first in thousands of years, and with that separation, with the time to herself and her thoughts, she’d found her perspective had changed. He was petulant, even more than she had really known, and the longer he avoided her, the longer he refused to consider her side, the further she drifted away from him.

Everything had changed. Adonis was gone. Apollo was her friend. And Ares …

If Ares had killed Adonis, everything she knew to be truth between them had been built on lies. The betrayal was more than she could fathom, but somehow, it seemed to be the only answer. The only one that made sense anyway.

Though she couldn’t blame him for keeping it from her. She’d sworn she would never forgive him.

And she didn’t break her promises.