Kat dreamed she was a bird.

Her face was to the sun, the wind rushing over her as she flew over green hills, over sapphire oceans, up and up, on and on, until she came to rest on a cloud.

It wrapped itself around her, folding over her with a cool mist, but she wasn’t afraid. Because she felt peaceful. She felt happy.

She stirred, but she couldn’t move. Something heavy and warm curled around her, and she found herself in her body once more. Her eyes opened only a crack, her mind confused.

And then she remembered, and a jolt of shock zipped down her spine.

Dillon’s big arm hung over her bare waist, holding her body close to his, her back to his front. He was curved around her, his chest rising and falling slowly, his warmth passing through her skin, transferring to her.

She felt safe, she realized. Safe and warm and cared for. Even in sleep, he hadn’t turned or rolled away but curled around her like a cat, his nose in her hair and breath against the back of her neck. A sigh gathered from somewhere deep down in her chest and slipped out of her.

The night before worked its way through her mind in whispers. Falling asleep in his arms. His lips, those lips so close to her neck even now, lips that had brushed curves of her body, writing his name with his breath against her skin. The sweetness of his admissions, the truth of his character, which she saw now was not what had been impressed upon her in the beginning.

He was so much more.

And she wanted to know all of him.

Her phone buzzed on the nightstand, and she glanced at it, not wanting to move. But then it buzzed again. Then, again.

Dread was a living thing, and it slid through her veins like a snake as she stretched for her phone, not wanting to wake Dillon. Her fingers grazed it, moving it toward her until it was close enough to grab, and she hit her Home button.

The screen flashed with alerts stacked up like bricks. Dozens of phone calls and texts from two friends of hers in Vegas whom she’d asked to watch Eric.

She scanned them all, her heart stopping in her chest when she read this:

Saw Eric tonight at a party, and he was acting weird. He wouldn’t stop talking about Kiki and almost got in a fight with a bookie he was pumping for info on you. Thought you should know.

Panic set in, her mind razor-sharp for the first time in what felt like days.

Eric hadn’t forgotten about them like they’d hoped. And she’d left Kiki alone.

Guilt spurred the panic until her heart pounded, mind racing. She’d fucked up, fucked up so royally, let her guard down completely. She hadn’t thought twice about staying the night with Dillon. In fact, she hadn’t thought about Kiki at all.

It was stupid, so stupid. So reckless.

Her thoughts ran in circles, but the loudest was that she had to get to Kiki.

Could she slip out without waking him?

What if he woke?

What would she say?

She imagined telling him the truth, telling him about Eric, about Kiki, about their past. A stupid, cavalier part of her almost did right then, right there.

But telling him would only put him in danger.

There was no way out. Not without hurting him.

Not without hurting herself.

Because the truth in her heart was that she wanted him. And the fact was that she couldn’t have him. Not now. Not until the danger passed.

If it would ever pass.

Tears burned her eyes, stinging her nose as she glanced around the room for something to save her, deciding on a pillow that was within reach. She moved slowly, pulling it close, gingerly lifting his arm so she could slide out from under it, slipping the pillow in her place.

He stirred, squeezing it to his chest with a sigh, and she watched, still as stone, waiting for him to wake. But his only movement was the slow, steady rise and fall of his chest, and her only choice was to walk away.

And she hated every fucking thing about it.

Kat pulled on her clothes, watching him sleep, trying to hurry. She would call him and try to explain without explaining. She’d come up with some plan, some sort of plan.

She only hoped he would understand.

Kat picked up her shoes and took a last look at Dillon, his golden hair shining in the morning sunlight, his arms gripping that pillow that he thought was her. Her throat tightened, eyes brimming as she turned to leave, walking away as softly as she could, down the stairs. And then she scooped up her keys and trotted out the door, wishing she could reconfigure the stars that seemed so hell-bent on keeping her from what she wished for.

Dillon woke with a start when a car engine rumbled outside, wondering why he was hugging a pillow, sleepily glancing around the room.

And then he remembered.

Kat.

She was gone.

He bolted out of bed, snatching a pair of sweats that he hastily pulled on before pacing through the silent house, through the empty kitchen.

Brow furrowed, he ran a hand through his hair, wondering why, wondering what he’d done wrong, replaying the night in his mind. Everything had felt right. He’d convinced her to stay without needing to do much convincing at all. And she’d been more, so much more than he’d imagined. And he’d imagined a lot. He’d imagined the two of them as an explosion, imagined fire and heat, a fast, hot flash of skin against skin.

That was how it always was, and that was what he’d expected a woman like Kat to expect from him.

But that wasn’t what she’d wanted or what she’d given. It wasn’t what he’d given.

He couldn’t convince himself that he’d read her wrong. There was no way she’d just been caught in the moment. That moment was too real to stumble into and out of.

The thought that she’d only wanted a one-night stand twisted in his mind, twisted his lips into a frown, twisted his heart into a knot.

Maybe there was a more reasonable excuse. Maybe she had somewhere to be. He could call her, ask her, but that seemed wrong, seemed desperate.

Owen would know what to do.

Dillon trotted into his bedroom and to his phone, trying not to look at the bed they’d shared, the traces of her body in the curves of the rumpled sheets.

Kat just took off. She didn’t say goodbye, just left. Are you at her place?

A second later, his phone buzzed. Yeah. But what do you mean? Like before you were up?

Yeah, IDK. I want to think there’s a reason, but I don’t feel good about this.

His phone buzzed again. Don’t assume anything, asshole. Call her. Heading that way in a few.

Dillon stared at his phone for a second in indecision, his stomach a den of snakes that he ignored as he pulled up her name to find out for sure what the hell was going on.

What the fuck am I going to do?

It was the only question in Kat’s head as she raced through Brooklyn toward her house, her mind turning around with her wheels.

She had to get her head straight. That was the first nonnegotiable task, made impossible by her panic over Eric, made worse by the scent of Dillon on her, the memory of the night before slipping in and out of her thoughts like smoke.

Her fears had been confirmed, and she didn’t feel the least bit smug about it.

Eric.

Her stomach turned at even the thought of his name, sour bile climbing up her esophagus as she bit back tears. The vise in her chest tightened with every second as she imagined all the ways he could find them without giving them time for a warning. He could fly. He could stop asking and just leave town. He could have already left, could already be on his way.

If he’d taken a red-eye, he’d already be there.

She pushed the accelerator to the limit of what she could handle.

Her phone rang from her passenger seat, and she reached for it, eyes on the road, nearly dropping it when she saw it was Dillon.

She should throw it back in her seat, but that stupid, cavalier part of her took over and answered.

“Hey,” she said without a clue what she was doing.

Dillon was silent for a moment. “You left,” he saids simply.

“I … I—” I’m sorry. I want you. It’s not my fault. Excuses piled up in her throat.

“If you didn’t want me, you should have just said so.” The words were hard, his assumptions perfectly clear.

She bristled. “Dillon—”

“I thought you were different. I thought that last night …” He paused. “I guess it doesn’t matter what I thought, does it?”

“I’m sorry,” was all she could say, the only explanation she could offer. “I can’t do this right now.”

“It’s not you, it’s me, right? Is that the next line?”

She breathed through the pain. “Something like that.”

Another pause. “Well, I guess that’s that.”

“I’m sor—”

“I’ll see you around, Kat.”

The line disconnected.

She threw her phone in the seat next to her, swallowing her tears as she turned into her alley.

The rejection in his voice, the sadness and anger and hurt, rang in her ears. She understood. He wanted her. And she wanted him, but she couldn’t have him.

If only Kiki hadn’t ever gotten wrapped up in Eric. If only she’d let Kat pull the trigger. If she’d just called their father, it would have been over. All of it. Her pain, her prison, her fear — all gone. Things would have been so different, if only.

But everything was fucked up and sideways, and she was caught in the middle, caught in the trap.

The loss of her life and dreams burned in her chest until the embers of resentment were all that were left.

It was all because of Kiki.

Family is everything.

She loved her sister more than anything, and because of that love, she’d do what she had to do.

But that didn’t mean she had to be happy about it.

Dillon stared at his phone in his hand, chest split open.

Kat didn’t care about him like he did her. She didn’t want him like he wanted her. He’d thought it had been unspoken, a promise whispered between them without a word.

He’d thought he’d known.

She’d snuck out like she was ashamed, and it left him ashamed, humiliated, rejected. Heartbroken.

Dillon buried his face in his hands, trying to grasp the situation, trying to get ahold of his emotions, trying to understand what had gone wrong, what he’d done. But there were no answers.

It was probably for the best.

His heart flung itself at his ribs in protest.

Dillon stood, his hands shaking as he shot a text to Owen and tossed his phone on the bed. He threw on sneakers and ran down the stairs, emotion rolling and boiling in his ribcage, slamming the door behind him hard enough, the windows rattled. And he took off in a dead sprint toward the gym with every footfall singing his regret.

Kat stormed into the house, tossing her keys on the bar before stomping up the stairs and into the living room.

Relief on finding her sister in one piece, sitting safely on the couch with a cup of coffee, did very little to temper her.

Because Kiki was the reason for her hurt, her pain. So she focused every bit of it into a fuming laser beam and trained it on her sister.

Kiki’s brows were drawn in concern. “What’s gotten into you?”

“Where’s Owen?” she asked, glancing toward the stairs.

“He just left.”

They waited in silence — Kiki watching Kat like she was crazy, Kat enraged and ready for a fight. Any fight would do.

“So,” Kiki started, breaking the silence, “what happened?”

“What do you think happened?” she snapped.

“Well, apparently what I think happened is wrong. What are you so bent about?”

Kat clenched her teeth and her fists at the same time. “You never should have pushed me into him.”

“What did he do?”

“Nothing. And nothing is going to come of it, so just swear to me you’re going to give it the fuck up.”

Kiki watched her. “I think maybe you’re freaking out just a little, Kat.”

“Don’t act like you know what I’m thinking,” Kat shot. “You have no idea what I’m thinking.”

“I’d be willing to bet that you don’t either.”

And that was the detonator. Kat blew.

“I’m thinking about you!” she yelled. “That’s all I ever do — think about you. It’s my responsibility to keep you safe, but you don’t give a shit about that. All you want to do is find yet another fucking guy, which is so far beyond stupid after what we’ve been through. The part where you conspired to get me to fuck his brother is new though. Wish granted. Does the backfire burn? ‘Cause it fucking feels great from where I’m standing.”

“Jesus Christ, Kat.”

“What, Kiki? What?” Kat shouted, throwing her hands up.

Kiki set her coffee on an end table and stood, leveling Kat with a glare. “I am sick and fucking tired of you using me as an excuse not to live your life.”

“I’m living my life,” she volleyed.

“No, you’re not, and you never have. You’re running from your life.”

“Fuck you, Kiki.” She turned for the stairs, the words too close to the truth.

But Kiki wasn’t through. “Don’t you fucking blame me because you’re too afraid to go after what you want.”

Kat turned on her sister, hands in fists. “I’m not afraid of anything. But let me ask you this; who’s responsible if Eric comes for you?”

“Fuck, Kat!” she cried, frustrated. “He’s not coming! Are you ever going to move on?”

“Move on?” Her eyes narrowed, voice low. “You should have let me kill that motherfucker. But no. You wanted him to live, so now it’s on me.” Kat touched her chest. “And until he’s dead, I will wonder if he’s going to show up. Because if he does, you’re not getting out of it with a heartbeat, and you know it. You wanted him alive — fine. But I’m the one who has to hide it from Dad because, if he finds out, Eric won’t just be dead. He’ll be tortured, his death long and slow and gruesome. And you know it.” She folded her arms across her chest as Kiki seethed. “Not that I give a shit. Part of me would love to see that prick in fifty pieces and two trash bags. Because there’s no moving on. Not from this. So should I go ahead and call Dad then? Or should I just go back to Vegas and kill him myself?”

Kiki said nothing.

“Yeah, I didn’t think so.”

Kat turned again and walked toward the stairs, and that time, Kiki let her go.

Kat marched up and slammed the bathroom door, opening the glass door to turn on the shower. She peeled off her clothes — the smell of Dillon sent memories flashing through her mind — and stepped into the steaming stream, closing her eyes as she raised her face to the water, letting it run over her face. And her thoughts collided, careening into each other, exploding on impact.

But there wasn’t a single answer to be found.

She had to honor her promise to her sister. She had to bear the burden. Family was everything, all she had.

And the day she learned the lesson that would dictated so much of her future, her choice had been set in stone.

* * *

Kat drew another swoop with her sidewalk chalk on the driveway near the side of the house and stood to admire her work. The garden she’d drawn was pretty good — for a nine-year-old, she figured. The rose was swirly in the middle for the layers, and the blades of grass had taken her forever. She’d almost gotten sloppy at the end, ready to be done with it, but she was glad she hadn’t.

She couldn’t wait to show her mom.

Kiki’s sweet little voice drifted over as she played under the shade of the tree with her Barbies. They were all laid out on a blanket other than Ken and Barbie, who were on a date in their pink Corvette.

Grace popped her head out of the screen door. “Lunch is in a bit, girls. Five more minutes, okay?”

“Okay,” the girls sang in unison.

All three of them laughed as Grace closed the door.

The sound of an engine moving too fast caught Kat’s attention, and she looked up the street, her smile falling when she saw a black Mercedes zooming toward them. It pulled up to the curb in front of Kiki. By the time Kat realized something might be wrong, she’d only made it a few steps and stopped, hidden behind the shrubs and out of sight.

Two men stepped out, both wearing Hawaiian-print shirts that hung over their paunches. The driver waited with his arms resting on the roof of the running car and his eyes scanning the streets. The passenger left his door open and knelt on the sidewalk in front of Kiki with his elbows on his knees and fat hands hanging between his thighs.

A warning rang in Kat’s mind. These men were dangerous. These men knew her father.

“Hey, little girl. Whatcha playin’? Barbies?” he asked in a thick New York accent.

Kiki eyed him and nodded.

He smiled. “Oh, my little girl loves Barbies. You know, she just got one of them Dreamhouses. You know the kind? With the elevator?”

Kiki’s face lit up. ”I’ve been asking my papa for one! He said maybe for my birthday,” she added with a pout.

“Well,” he said with a smile too sweet, “how’d you like to come play with my little girl? She’s about your age. I think you’d be good friends.”

Kiki bit her lip as she watched him warily, wanting to trust him. “Can my sister come?”

The driver glanced down the street. “Manny, come on.” A thin sheen of sweat glistened on his forehead, and he dabbed at it with a handkerchief.

Something in the air changed, a quiver, a waver, the tension thickening. Kat glanced around for a weapon. An aluminum baseball bat stood propped against the house. She wrapped her fingers around it, and her eyes locked on the man on his knees in front of her sister.

Manny was losing his patience, his eyes darting up and down the street. “No, honey. Your sister can’t come. If you wanna play with the Dreamhouse, we gotta go. Now. Come on.”

He reached for her, but Kiki shrank back.

“Sorry, kid,” he said, all pretense of nicety gone. “I didn’t want to have to do this.”

She screamed when he grabbed her, kicking and thrashing in his arms as he turned for the car.

Kat didn’t think. She just ran, bolting to the car, the bat in her sweaty hand, cocking it back to swing at the moment just before she’d have lost him. The force shot up her arms, the ting of the bat and the sick crack of his knee in her ears, his scream right behind it. He fell to the ground, dropping Kiki, who scrambled away and behind Kat.

Tires squealed in the distance, the climb of an engine, and Kat cranked her bat back, ready to take another swing. He picked himself up, sputtering and growling at her. His meaty hand reached for her, but he swung his head around when the driver slapped the roof of the car and dipped inside.

“We gotta go! Now!”

“Goddammit,” he shouted as he scrambled for the car, slamming the door behind him.

They peeled out and sped off just as another black car pulled up.

Two yakuza enforcers stepped out of the backseat, and the car drove off with a chirp of the tires the second the doors were closed.

Their faces were tight as one scooped up a sobbing Kiki and carried her inside. The other pried the bat from Kat’s fingers and walked her inside with a grip on her shoulder that told her he was just as afraid as she had been.

Grace sat on the couch, white as a sheet, Kiki in her arms. She opened an arm to Kat with shaking hands, and it wasn’t until then, until that moment, that the realization of what had happened could touch her. And she leaned into Grace’s side, arms around her neck, though she didn’t cry. She was too afraid to cry.

A half hour later, Kim burst through the door with bloodshot, swollen eyes, gathering her daughters up, clutching them to her chest. Katsu walked in behind her, still and cold and calm and deadly, not moving much past the door.

His four enforcers entered behind him, eyes on the ground, as he spoke Japanese, his tone like nothing she’d ever heard before. She picked up a word here and there as her mother rocked them, whispering that they were okay, that everything was okay.

But when she heard an enforcer say “Yubitsume,” every hair on her arms stood on end.

Even at nine, she knew what that was. Some of her father’s men were missing fingers, and one had told her — careless enough, as he could have lost another for it — what it meant. It was a sacrifice of atonement carried out by their own choice and volition when they’d dishonored their boss, an offering they would provide or would suffer a punishment far worse, doled by the hand of the boss they’d disgraced.

Kim heard the word too. She stopped rocking, her eyes darting to them, though her face was soft, comforting for her daughters’ sake.

“Come on, babies. Want to take a bath in Mommy’s tub?”

Kiki sniffled and nodded, and Kim moved the girls to her room where they took a bath in her giant jet-soaker tub. They spent the rest of the afternoon and that night in their mother’s bed eating, junk food.

At some point, Kat fell asleep, but she didn’t remember when or how, only that she woke up that morning in her own bed.

Voices carried into her room, and she threw off her covers, creeping out into the hallway in the still and quiet of the early morning. When she peeked around the corner of the kitchen, she saw Katsu leaning against the counter. His naked arms and chest were covered in tattoos — dragon scales and snakes, clouds and water, so many tattoos that she could only see a sliver of bare skin that cut through the center of his chest.

Kim stood at the sink, scrubbing a pot furiously enough that Kat thought it might have been clean some time ago. “I know we keep going around and around about this, but I just can’t get over it.” She put the pot down in the sink and wiped her hands. When she turned to him, her eyes were full of tears. “They almost took our baby. From our front yard. From our own home.”

He pushed off the counter and crossed the few feet between them, reaching for her. His arms wound around her, pulling her into him, and when she buried her face in his chest, he held her there with his hand in her hair, his voice hushed as he muttered something to her that Kat couldn’t hear.

“What are we going to do?” Kim asked softly, defeated.

“Please, believe me. You are safe. This should never have happened, and it will not happen again. Next time, no one will have enough time to get so close to any of you. I promise you that. A debt will be paid, a lesson learned. It will not happen again.”

A shudder rolled through Kim that Kat saw from across the room. “I don’t want to know.”

He leaned back to cup her cheek and kissed her gently, tenderly. “No one will harm you. No one will harm our daughters. On my life.” The words quavered.

Kim looked up at him with faith and devotion. “I believe you,” she whispered.

Kat shifted, and Kim’s eyes darted to her.

“Kat, come here, baby. You hungry?”

She nodded, eyes down, and walked to her mother, nestling silently into her side.

“How about pancakes? With chocolate chips?”

Kat’s fear dissipated just a little. “And whipped cream?”

“Extra whipped cream,” she said with a smile, smoothing Kat’s hair before scooting her off to the table.

Kat watched her mother walk to the pantry, laying a kiss on Katsu’s shoulder as she walked by.

He caught Kat watching and smiled, joining her. But then his smile slipped away, his eyes searching her face as he took the seat next to her.

“Katsumi, do you know who those men were? The men who tried to take Keiko?”

“Bad guys,” she answered quietly.

“Yes, they were bad guys. But you were very smart and very brave. And you saved your sister.”

Her lips pinched, brows drawn in determination. “They were gonna take her, Papa.”

“They were going to try. But you protected her. We always protect our family. Even when it is hard. Even when we are afraid. Even when we think we cannot. When you are older, I will teach you how to protect yourself, and your mama and Keiko too.” He lowered his face to look her in the eyes, his own soft as he brushed his knuckles against her cheek. “You are strong, my Katsumi. Stronger than you know. And I am proud.”

* * *

Owen pulled up in front of the gym, ducking down to look through the front window for Dillon. He hadn’t been home when Owen had got there, and he’d left his phone at home.

It meant he wanted to be left alone, but Owen knew his brother better than he knew himself.

Kat was different, and how Dillon felt about her was different. It was easy enough to deduce that something had gone wrong, and though he knew Dillon needed to think, he also knew Dillon’s mind would lead him to places of guilt, a downward spiral of blame and deprecation. And so Owen hoped to be the voice of reason, hoped his brother would hear him from the darkness of his mind.

He cut the engine when he caught sight of Dillon, shirtless and dripping with sweat as he beat the shit out of a punching bag.

Owen’s eyes were on Dillon the whole way into the gym, breaking only for a glance at Brian, who jerked his chin in Dillon’s direction. Owen nodded back, his feet still on a track to his brother. But Dillon couldn’t be interrupted. He needed to see himself through the moment he was lost in, never looking up, never slowing.

So Owen sat on a stool just out of the way, his eyes tracking an X of duct tape stuck to the side of the bag, the smiley face in the center swinging and jolting in time to Dillon’s fists as he punished the bag of leather and sand.

Dillon’s focus was intense and singular, his breath hissing with every swing, his body wound tight, sweat rolling and dripping from his body. The snake around his arm coiled and sprang, coiled and sprang, striking over and over, the balls of his feet pivoting, his abs twisting, the thump of his gloves popping, leather on leather, like music.

And Owen waited. He waited and watched. He thought, and he hoped. He wished for things neither of them could have.

It was quite some time before he finally wore himself out, slowing down, stopping. He rested his forehead against the bag, hanging his forearm in the space above, eyes closed, chest heaving.

Owen stood, picking up a towel from a nearby stack as he passed by, on his way to Dillon. Owen touched his arm.

Dillon’s eyes opened, widening in surprise at seeing Owen there, hardening just as quickly. He took the towel without speaking and ran it over his face.

Owen didn’t take offense, just took his seat once more and crossed his ankles in front of him, and waited.

When Dillon spoke, his voice was rough and exhausted. “Thanks for the help last night with Kat.”

The dig didn’t faze him; he knew his brother too well to believe it was meant to inflict pain. “I’m sorry, Dillon.”

Dillon reached for his water and took a long pull in a pause. When he swallowed, he pressed the pads of his fingers into his eyes, voice full of defeat. “I thought she was different.”

“She is different. I think we can all see that. There’s got to be something else to it.”

And then the defeat was gone, and anger took its place, the pendulum swinging again. “She doesn’t want me. If she did, she wouldn’t have left. There wouldn’t be a choice to be made.”

He fumed, hands on his hips, and Owen thought he looked like a child. A big, angry child.

“She doesn’t want me, and I was a fool for thinking she ever could.”

“She said that? She said she didn’t want you?”

“Not in so many words.”

“If she didn’t say it, you don’t know for sure. Maybe it was too fast. Maybe she’s scared. If you want to see her, if you want to be with her, don’t you think you should fight for her?”

“You really think that’s a good idea?” Dillon barked. “After she turned me down, walked out on me, told me she didn’t want to see me? I have a feeling she wouldn’t take to that real well.”

Owen sighed. “No, you’re probably right about that.”

Dillon ran a hand through his hair and lied to both of them. “It’s for the best. I’m not playing games, and I’m not taking a chance just so she can fuck with me. Why should I? She hasn’t shown me anything but disdain since the minute I met her.”

“You’re right,” Owen said dryly. “She’s a loner, protective, independent, fiercely loyal, mouthy, angry, and she has a huge chip on her shoulder. I can’t think of anyone else I know like that.”

Dillon narrowed his eyes. “Fuck off, Owen.”

But Owen uncrossed his ankles and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, giving Dillon time to take a breath.

Because the truth of the matter was right there. Dillon just had to get everything else out of his way so he could see it.

“What are you going to do?” Owen asked after a moment.

“Nothing.” Dillon pulled off his gloves, the finality in his voice closing the subject.

And Owen knew there was nothing else to say, not now at least. Maybe he’d cool down and think about it. Maybe he’d come around, and maybe Kat would too. Maybe there was a way for him and Kiki to help them find a way back to each other, back to where they’d been the night before.

Maybe.

He stood and offered Dillon his keys. “Come on. Want to drive?”

Dillon shook his head, his eyes hard and hurt and angry still. “I’m going to run. I’ll meet you at home later.”

He closed his hand around the keys and dropped his fist. “Sure.” And with one last long look at his brother, unwrapping his wrists and back in his own mind, Owen turned to go.

Brian raised an eyebrow at him from across the room, but Owen shook his head, pushing through the door and onto the sidewalk.

When he was back in the driver’s seat of the GTO, he pulled out his phone and called Kiki. The phone rang once.

“Hey.”

Her sigh in his ear gave him no hope.

“Hi. Did she make it home?”

“Yeah, she’s in the shower, and she’s pissed.”

“So is he.” Owen glanced back in the window, watching Dillon watching the ground like he’d find answers written there. “I’ve never seen him like this over a girl before, and I think that can only mean one thing. He cares about her, and whatever happened between them means he can’t have her.”

“Kat too. But instead of telling me what happened, she picked a fight with me. A huge fight.”

“What?” he asked stupidly. He’d heard her just fine.

Another sigh. “It’s complicated, but I don’t think the fight was really what we fought about, if that makes any sense. But she’s decided she can’t be with Dillon, and once she decides, there’s no going back, regardless of how she really feels. Instead, she’ll shove it down into the dark recesses of her heart and pretend like it never happened and doesn’t exist.”

“They’re so much alike, and that might be their end. Because if neither of them will bend, they’ll break.”

Silence stretched, both of them lost in their thoughts.

“Dillon has sacrificed everything for me — his happiness, his future, his life. He wants her, and he cares. I know it. If there’s any way to help smooth this over, I want to. I need to. We can’t let it end like this.”

“What should we do?”

He leaned back, resting his head on the leather. “Once he cools off, he’ll listen. But she’s the one who left this morning and told him she didn’t want him. It’s got to be her to come around.”

“Let’s give them a couple of days to miss each other, and in the meantime, we’ll keep trying to get them to come around. We’ll come up with a plan. I have faith.”

“Then I do too.” He turned the keys in the ignition with a sigh. “In more exciting news, I have an exam today, so I’ll be out early. Can I pick you up for dinner before you have to work?”

He could hear her smiling on the other end of the line.

“That would make my day so much better.”

And he smiled back as he pulled away from the curb, thankful for her, thankful for her sunshine and heart and the way he made her feel.

But he only said, “Mine too.”

Ares couldn’t help but smile as he sauntered through the kitchen, snagging a handful of fries from Dionysus’s plate, ignoring the obscenities shouted at him.

The look on Dita’s face when he pointed out his victory did that to him — made him blissfully happy.

Underestimated. Maybe for the last time, if he played it right.

Of course, when he walked into the game room and found his twin sons playing God of War, his smile hit the floor, and he stormed to the PlayStation and pulled the power cable out of the back.

Phobos shot off the couch, his blue eyes hard, hands thrown up in the air. “What the fuck, Ares?”

Ares folded his arms and glared. “That game is blasphemous fucking garbage.”

Deimos snickered. “You’re just mad because they wrote Kratos murdering you.”

“I’m immortal, asshole. I can’t die. And if I could, it certainly wouldn’t be by the hand of a fucking demigod.”

He was sneering and didn’t care. What he did care about was teaching the little shits a lesson in gaming. So he plugged the PlayStation back in, took God of War out, snapped it in half, and put in something else instead.

Ares tossed a controller to Deimos and grabbed one for himself, settling into the couch between them, which forced them both to move with a huff.

The boys — well, they weren’t so much boys anymore, but he couldn’t help but think of them that way — had his dark hair, though they wore theirs longer, and they were nearly as tall as he, though leaner. Their bright eyes, blue and bigger, like Dita’s, gave them an air of innocence, but the glint spoke of mischief and mayhem, their dark brows heavy, cunning. They looked so much like him, behaved so much the same, his sons who had ridden into battle with him. Fear and terror. Phobos and Deimos.

They might look innocent, but they were not.

Phobos propped his feet up on the coffee table as the game began, each of them on their own TV. “So Kat took off, just like I said she would.”

One corner of Ares’s lips rose. “You were right, but you don’t get credit. I set up the Vegas texts about Eric after sending him on a little rampage last night.”

Deimos shook his head. “I dunno. I still say it was a dumbass move. You’ve tipped her off.”

Ares slapped Deimos upside the head.

“Ow.” Deimos furrowed his brow, but his eyes didn’t leave the screen.

“Don’t talk shit. I split them up, didn’t I?”

“Yeah, and Kat made a real shitshow of it,” Phobos said. “We’ve been fucking with those two forever. I seriously don’t know why Dita chose her. Seems pretty dumb, if you ask me.”

Ares turned and looked at him squarely. “Your mother is smart, and she’s got an advantage. Kat and Dillon are perfect for each other; that’s the whole fucking point. And when she picks a match, they’re almost unstoppable. We’re all fools for even thinking we can compete.”

The twins wore equally cowed expressions, only looking back to the screen when he sat back in his seat.

His sons blew up a barricade, and he smiled. As much as Eros was Dita’s, Phobos and Deimos were his own.

On the day they were born, Ares had held her hand while she labored, beside himself with helplessness at her pain. He was a doer, but there was nothing to be done but be idle and watch, two things he’d never excelled at. Her hair had been plastered to her face, legs split open as she panted and pushed and cried and screamed. And then a smaller cry rang out over hers, and Phobos was born.

The moment Ares had held him the first time — the tiny, squirming thing with thick, dark hair, red little mouth in an O as he cried — he couldn’t comprehend, couldn’t understand the magic that had made this child of his blood and hers. And then a second cry, a push, and Artemis had held another in her hands. Deimos.

But the moment he cherished above all was Aphrodite’s face, full of wonder and tears as they’d lain in her bed together, their babies between them, watching them as they greeted the world.

The boys had been raised by Hera, as neither he nor Dita had the disposition required to raise children. Hera had gladly accepted, though Ares had known Dita wasn’t pleased at the prospect. But she also knew the boys were more Ares than her, and although Persephone had raised Eros, Dita didn’t think laying a set of mischievous twins on her best friend was a responsibility she was willing to give.

Hera had undoubtedly spoiled the boys, shaping them to be more like Ares than they might have been otherwise.

Eris entered the room, breaking him from his thoughts. She nibbled on red licorice, one hand stuffed in her hoodie pouch as she walked around the couch to sit on the floor, back against the couch, stretching her striped legs in front of her, boots crossed.

“Hey, Eris,” Ares said absently as he mashed buttons on his controller.

“Strife.”

“I’m not calling you that.”

“Is that any way to thank me for my influence on your players? They’re a couple of my favorite bickerers.” She took a bite of licorice. “I’ve had men challenging Kat since she was in a training bra. Although she used to be more fun to needle than she is now.”

Ares snorted. “Of course that was you.”

She shrugged. “Not like it was hard. The guys she races are real assholes, most of them.” She picked at her chipped black nail polish. “I even got one to call her a nickname she hates. It makes her crazy. It’s made her stronger though. The last few years, she’s learned to let shit roll off her back. Good for her. Sucks for me.”

Ares kept his eyes on the TV. “Too bad it’s all for naught. As much as I’d love to win, the odds aren’t really in my favor even though all of us have influence on them. She’s just too good. So she’ll probably cream me.”

“Yeah, she will. If she hasn’t already,” Deimos said.

Ares ignored them, hitting the X button wildly with his thumb, and they all cheered when he blew up the encampment.

“And that,” Ares said as he stood and tossed the controller in his place, “is how you do it.” He stuck his finger in the twins’ faces. “Don’t let me catch you losers playing that stupid game again — or else.” As he walked out of the room, he said over his shoulder, not at all joking, “And if I catch you talking shit about your mom again, I’ll kick your fucking teeth in.”

The sheepskin rug was springy and soft on Dita’s feet as she stepped out of the shower and reached for a fluffy white towel, solemn and unsmiling as she dried her arms, legs, hair before dropping the towel to the ground.

Everything felt wrong.

She walked naked into her closet, sorting through her thoughts one by one in the hopes that it would help her make sense of them. Kat and Dillon had come together and burst apart like shrapnel. The high from last night had come down with a crash. Another fight, a fight that would be harder to overcome than before.

She wondered if it was possible for things to get easier or if this was just a pattern they’d find themselves in over and over again.

It was a pattern she understood intimately.

Not seeing much of anything, she reached into a drawer, retrieving an oversize gray sweater that she tugged on, though it hung off one shoulder. A cold droplet of water slid slowly down her neck, speeding up as it rolled down the length of her spine, sending a shiver through her.

Adonis was on her mind, as he so often was, the loss still fresh and raw and painful, her hope that he’d come around dwindling with every day. She only wanted it to be over.

She just didn’t know if it would ever end.

Dita stepped through the threshold and to the keypad, punching a series of numbers, and when the room on the other side whirred, she watched and waited. Room after room flew past like a flip book, ages of clothes and jewelry and keepsakes from eras long past and forgotten, the force of the motion sending goosebumps across her skin and stirring her hair, heavy with water.

When it stopped, her sadness deepened and took root.

She stepped into the soft spring grass that carpeted the room to every corner, every wall lined with shelves inset in stone with myrtle trees growing between each, always in bloom, caught in a perpetual spring. The domed ceiling seemed to go on forever, colored in the golden hues of sunset.

It was Adonis’s room.

The shelves held so many memories, so much history. Black clay pots painted with the story of their doomed love. Scrolls and books told the story in words and song, spoke of their unending love. Paintings in gilded frames hung above the shelves, more propped on the floor, all of her and her mortal lover. She stopped in front of her favorite, Waterhouse’s The Awakening of Adonis. She bent down to peer at it, her heart tight at the sight of the two figures, forever anticipating a kiss.

It had always hit a little close to home.

Then, there were her own keepsakes. His spear, dagger, and swords were on display. She ran the pad of her finger along the edge of the blade. His leather belt and sandals lay on the grass, as if he would be back for them at any moment. Flowers he’d once given her on a summer afternoon she’d never forget bloomed eternally in a vase.

She picked up a little wooden dove he’d carved for her out of cypress and closed her hands around it, turning her back to those memories in search of another.

In the center of the room was her pride — a statue carved of marble, milky white and lit from above, anemone flowers dotting the grass at his feet. He looked down at her, his hand extended, love in his eyes, beckoning her to join him. It was his exact likeness, so shockingly real that she felt him inside, could almost hear him breathing. But it was only stone, cold to the touch.

She knew, for she’d touched it often, believing she might find it warm and real.

Centuries before, during the Renaissance, she had approached Michelangelo just after he completed the statue of David. The artist was Apollo’s star, and as much as she’d hated Apollo at the time, she’d found the artist to be brilliant, as all the gods did.

Inspiration went all ways.

She’d commissioned the piece from him, paying him handsomely for his secrecy, though he’d tried to refuse. He had not been a man for fame or fortune, but a slave to his work and vision. But she’d insisted — she could be quite convincing — and he had ultimately acquiesced.

For hours, she’d sat with him as he sketched, recounting every detail of Adonis’s face and body, the lines of which she knew better than even her own. And, four years later, he had been delivered to her, a glory even the artist himself said in his letter was beyond his knowing or understanding.

She placed her hand on the cheek of the cold stone, tracing the crease of his lips with her thumb as a tear rolled down her face.

Her hand fell away, and she sat in the grass, hooking her elbows around bent knees, her face turned up to his as he looked down at hers, reaching for her.

But the truth touched her heart, as cold as the stone of his figure before her.

She had never had him at all. He couldn’t give himself to her because he only cared for himself.

Never had he sacrificed. Never had he taken her counsel.

He cared for her as he cared for a thing owed to him, a comfort he sought by right. He’d been given all he wanted and wished for the moment it left his lips, never denied. And when it had come time for him to make a stand, he’d refused. He had not fought for her when Persephone kept him locked in the underworld, though she had journeyed through Hades to get him back. And even then, he would not choose.

He would never fight for her unless the end benefited him. Because he’d never loved her, not in the way she loved him. Not in the way that meant she could stay.

Her tears touched the grass, rolling down the blades and into the soil, birthing anemones, small and fragile and fleeting and final.

No, he didn’t love her. And he never would.

And she could no longer tell herself otherwise.