Chapter One

Hawk had built Jeni a house with his bare hands, and it was still only the second-most squishily domesticated thing about Six’s current surroundings.

Not that the house wasn’t nice. Perched on a bit of land on the freshly revitalized edge of Sector Four, it was close enough to the O’Kane compound that they could be back at the Broken Circle in no time flat. And it was close enough to the little farm Hawk’s sisters had built that they could walk over to visit.

It was a snug little love nest, with a big kitchen and bigger living room, along with lots of huge windows letting in sunlight to bathe couches and chairs currently filled with O’Kanes. Six covertly poked at one window under the guise of admiring the curtains, relieved to discover they were actually secure, blast-proof plexiglass.

The war might be over, but getting lazy about security was just stupid.

Even with the safety precautions, the house was almost cloyingly adorable. Downright motherfucking picturesque. But the real kicker was in the corner near the unlit hearth--a crib so big there had been plenty of room to put both of Rachel’s twins down in it when they’d drifted off.

It could have just been a thoughtful gesture. Between Amira’s daughter, Rachel’s babies, and the son Noelle was carrying, Christ knew the thing would get plenty of use. But Six had caught the way Hawk’s eyes kept drifting to it, all soft and dreamy, like Nessa anticipating the perfect cask of whiskey or the way Laurel had looked when Six and Bren had gotten her one of the next-gen sniper rifles.

If Jeni wasn’t pregnant yet, it wasn’t for lack of trying.

She walked in from the kitchen, carrying a heavy tray. “Lemonade. Clear pitcher’s spiked, but the green isn’t.”

“Here, I got it.” Six took the tray from Jeni and placed it on the low wooden table in front of the couch. The set of pristine crystal glasses that had been Noelle and Jasper’s housewarming gift were still there, so Six poured some of the unspiked lemonade into one and offered it to Noelle.

“Thanks,” she said, before taking a sip. Her eyes rolled back as she gave an appreciative moan. “Oh God, that tastes so good. You need to teach me how to make this, Jeni. I’ve been craving lemons so badly.”

“Yeah,” Nessa teased, nudging Noelle with an elbow. “If we don’t keep an eye on her, she sneaks into the kitchen at the bar and just eats them whole.”

Jeni curled up in a chair beside the window with a smile. “I’m surprised you haven’t asked Mad. He grew up on things like this.”

“I’ll talk to him about it,” Jyoti offered as she rose to help Six pour drinks. There was a symbolism there Six could appreciate--both she and Jyoti were sector leaders in their own right. She couldn’t imagine either of their predecessors fucking up their image by serving drinks like the hired help.

They might be leaders, but when the O’Kanes gathered together, they were something better. Family.

Lex lingered by the crib as she sipped her drink. Then she turned toward Jeni, one eyebrow raised. “Do you have something to tell us?” she asked dryly.

“No.” Jeni’s eyes sparkled, reflecting a light and contentment that made her look like she was smiling, even though she wasn’t. “But I will.”

Ace laughed from his perch near the crib. When Rachel had joined some of the men to go look at Hawk’s newest salvaged car, he’d taken up a protective watch over his six-week-old twins--as if anything could get through the wall of O’Kanes outside. “We’re gonna need a nursery, Lex. Or a day care.”

She snorted. “We’ll put you in charge of it. That way, you can keep a close eye on yours.”

It should have been laughable--casually violent, gleefully kinky, impossibly irreverent Ace serving as the adult authority in a room full of babies. But Ace had taken to fatherhood like a man who’d found his calling, and the sight of him cradling babies and making toddlers squeal with laughter seemed to melt everyone’s brains.

It mostly made Six a little claustrophobic.

Not that she had a problem with babies. She’d been put in charge of helping with her father’s youngest children when she was barely more than a toddler herself, so she was a goddamn expert on babies compared to most of the O’Kanes. Babies were fine. They were cute and fun to cuddle...and even more fun to hand to someone else when their diapers started stinking.

The idea of not being able to hand them back made the inside of her skin itch.

Lex was watching her like she could read her thoughts far too easily, so Six changed the subject. “How’re the plans for the soft opening coming, Lex?”

“Not bad. Dallas isn’t happy with how new everything looks, but I told him a few bar brawls will bust all that shit up in no time.”

Six laughed and poured herself some of the spiked lemonade. “Want me to bring the girls over some night? They love a good bar fight. We can rough up the edges for you.”

“We could use some extra security for the opening.”

Six paused to run down her mental list of the women currently training with her and Bren. While their little makeshift school had started as a wartime necessity, the ranks had been slowly swelling. The girls she’d accepted from the training houses in the aftermath of Sector Two’s destruction had been joined by women from every other sector--women with the skill and the grit to fight, who had just been waiting for someone to encourage their interest and hone their talents.

“I have a few,” she said slowly, still sorting through the list in her head. “Some who can come over for opening night, and a few who might be ready for full-time jobs, if you’re looking for bouncers. Bren and I can give them more specific crowd control training, too.”

Jeni sighed and glanced at Ace over the rim of her glass. “They’re talking business again.”

“Nah,” Ace replied with a wink. “Crowd control training isn’t business to Six. It’s practically foreplay.”

“Oh, shut up.” Six tried to scowl at him, but he just kept beaming her with that impossibly Ace smile, the one that was somehow annoying and endearing at the same time, so she gave up. “Fine. Someone talk about something not business related.”

One of the babies chose that moment to let out a plaintive wail. Ace swept Isaac out of the crib and into his arms, but it was too late. Rosalía started crying, too, and it took a frantic couple minutes of baby shuffling before everyone was settled again, the babies nestled in Ace and Jeni’s arms, eating contentedly.

Nessa jumped into silence with the story of her recent road trip to see the ocean. She’d filled a tablet full of photographs, and Six flipped through the pictures as Nessa showed off her housewarming gift--a bottle of sand filled with bright, colorful seashells.

The pictures were beautiful. They showcased the vivid blue ocean and pristine white sand, the snow-capped mountains and towering trees so large it would take half a dozen O’Kanes to encircle the trunks with their arms. It was more of the world than Six had ever seen, but she couldn’t feel even a fraction of the excited awe in Nessa’s voice.

It was pretty, but it wasn’t her world. Her world was Sector Four and the family she’d found there. And Sector Three, where people were depending on her to rebuild their lives.

So as the conversation flowed around her, Six finalized the list of women who were ready to take their first steps in a new life. Bouncing at the Broken Circle might not seem like everyone’s dream job...

But it had worked out pretty well for Six.

»»» § «««

Seven hours later, seated at her desk, Six reviewed the carefully written list of names. Her handwriting was still a mess, but it wasn’t a joke anymore. Noelle’s patient tutelage had gotten Six to the point where she could keep basic files on her girls and decipher the teachers’ notes, even if she still hadn’t gotten comfortable enough with reading and writing to enjoy it the way Noelle did.

She had five women ready to leave the nest and strike out on their own. One older trainee from Sector Two, who would no doubt fit in great once she got over her awe of Lex. Three women in their twenties from Sector Four who’d been hovering around the edges of the cage fighting scene for years, just waiting for Dallas to loosen the rules and give them a shot. And one girl from the farms in Sector Seven--a girl who’d run the same way Six had, then spent a decade living rough on the streets in Sector Five.

A good range of age and experience. A team that would work well with the O’Kanes and with each other.

Five women who had a chance to be something more than they’d grown up believing possible, because Dallas and Lex were changing the rules about which dreams were out of reach.

Laurel was sitting on a file cabinet, kicking her legs so that the backs of her heeled boots thumped against the metal with a dull clang. “So how was the party?”

“It was fun.” Six folded the list in half and set it aside. “Nessa brought pictures of their big trip to the ocean. You should have come with us.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Nah, that whole O’Kane deal is more of a you thing.”

Six imagined Dallas’s horror at hearing lemonade and vacation pictures referred to as that whole O’Kane deal, and her lips twitched. “Well, it wasn’t exactly the most O’Kane party ever. If you want to see that, you need to come to the soft opening they’re doing when the new bar’s finished.”

“Maybe once the crowds die down a little.” She paused, then grinned. “If they do. It’s not every day you get to do your drinking with a bunch of certified goddamn war heroes.”

“Which includes you, you know,” Six reminded her. “How’s it feel to be a war hero?”

Her smile faded. “Honestly? It makes me feel like an old-timer.”

Old-timer wasn’t something that could apply to either of them. Laurel was only a few years older than Six, not even thirty yet. Perched on the file cabinet in jeans, a tank top, and leather boots, her brunette hair streaked with bright pink, she looked even younger.

Except for her eyes. Six had seen that look in the mirror before--ancient, tired. They’d both grown up hard and not-always-pretty. Under the previous sector leader, Three hadn’t been a friendly place for teenage girls.

Which was putting it mildly.

“You are an old-timer, in a way,” Six said softly. “You didn’t just survive this big war everyone saw. You survived the one we were all fighting every damn day Wilson Trent was in charge of this sector.”

“Nah, that’s not it. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’ll sit here and blame shit on Trent all you want, but this is...” She slid off the cabinet, then circled it and leaned on it, drumming her fingers on the surface. “You know those old guys who would sit around the bar sometimes? Like, all they would do was drink? They were all stuck somewhere else--back when the factories all got blown to hell, or maybe even before the Flares. I think I finally understand how that happens to someone, that’s all.”

Six tried to understand, but she couldn’t. She felt alive, maybe more than she ever had before. She and Bren put another piece of Sector Three back together every day. The thrill of it was better than any booze--the power to see a wrong and know she could make it right, along with the knowledge that she never had to do it alone.

But saving Three had always been her dream. Didn’t mean it was Laurel’s. “I know I’ve been leaning on you pretty heavy. But if it’s so heavy you’re feeling stuck...”

She waved that away. “If I wanted to be someplace else, I’d be there. I’m not giving you the kiss-off.” She seemed to be struggling for words, a rare occurrence for Laurel. “But this is your story, not mine.”

There had been a time when Six thought Laurel would be her second-in-command. Like Jasper was for Dallas, a person she could trust to have her back and take care of day-to-day shit in the sector when bigger problems reared their heads. But Laurel’s tired eyes and deep musings weren’t new, just the latest version of the restlessness that had plagued the woman since the walls came down.

Being a leader meant paying attention. And it meant taking care of your people--even when that involved giving up your potential right hand. “So let’s find you a story. What do you wanna do?”

Laurel threw back her head with a laugh. “I don’t think that’s how stories work, Six. The best ones always just...seem to find you.”

In Six’s experience, the best stories were the ones you fought for. The ones you wrote for yourself because you’d finally figured out what happiness looked like. But she could remember not being ready to hear that, too, so she shook her head. “In the meantime, help me find someone to run the school. Just so you won’t feel tied down if something interesting pops up and you wanna run after it.”

Laurel scoffed. “That’s easy. Just look and see who’s already doing it without having to be asked.”

Six was about to retort that if it was that easy, she already would have done it. But she’d just spent an hour painstakingly reviewing files, and one teacher’s precise, elegant handwriting had dominated most of them. “Marian.”

“See? Simple, right?”

Maybe it could be. Marian was one of the older refugees from Two--a woman who’d completed training and settled in with a patron. For fifteen years, she’d run his household, managed his trading relationships, and served his needs in bed.

And when the bastard got warning of the bombs headed for Sector Two, what had he done? Packed up his valuables and disappeared into the night, leaving Marian sleeping obliviously.

The asshole was lucky he hadn’t fled to Eden. When Marian had finally confessed the truth to her, Six had put out a few feelers. Not that Councilman Markovic would have been too happy if Six started carving up rich guys in the city he was trying to piece back together--but the pain in Marian’s eyes had infuriated her.

She couldn’t fix the hurt in the woman’s past, but maybe she could give her something good to focus on for the future. “All right. I’ll talk to her, smartass.”

“Excellent.” The door to Six’s cluttered office cracked open, and Laurel hefted her bag from the floor beside the desk. “Now, if you’ll excuse me...”

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Six told her, her attention already drifting.

It always did when Bren stepped into a room.

He nodded to Laurel as she slipped past, and Six waited until the door closed before relaxing into a smile. “I was going to come to bed in a little bit. I promise.”

He leaned against the door frame and nodded. “You have things to do.”

“Not too many tonight.” She picked up the list of names and held it out. “What do you think? Lex said they can hire up to five bouncers full-time once the Broken Circle is open again.”

He studied the page, his gaze flicking over the list. “They would all be good at it, if that’s what they want to do. Kelly might need some help with de-escalation.”

“Yeah. Life in Sector Five doesn’t exactly prepare you for that.” Six shoved out of her chair and pushed the files back into a stack. “We can talk to them, see who’s interested. Maybe give them some specific training over the next couple weeks.”

“But not tonight.” He slipped the paper under the edge of the stack of file folders and held out his hand. “You’ve been at it too long today.”

They’d spent a long afternoon at Hawk and Jeni’s, which meant even more messes to clean up once they got back. Six finally understood the depth of Dallas’s patience and commitment--and how vital Lex was to his sanity.

She slipped her hand into Bren’s and leaned against his chest. It was broad and solid, an unshakable wall, and always there when she got tired of standing on her own. She liked how they fit together--he wasn’t so tall that she couldn’t kiss him when she wanted, but it was still easy to turn her head and rest her ear over his heart to hear the steady, reassuring thud.

His chest rumbled beneath her cheek. “I have a surprise for you.”

That piqued her interest. “Yeah?”

“Mmm, if you don’t mind stopping by the bar on our way up to bed.”

“I think I can make it if you can, old man.”

“Brat.” He flicked the switch beside the door, plunging the room into darkness. Six looped her arm through his, trusting his night vision as office door creaked open.

The hallway beyond was almost as dark, with only the softest glow coming through the oval window in the door that led to the main bar. To the left, stairs headed up to their living quarters on the second floor, but Bren guided her to the right.

Her eyes adjusted slowly, revealing the outlines of the framed posters lining the wall. Their collection of pre-Flare music memorabilia had spilled out of the main floor now that Riff and Scarlet had time to work their black-market contacts. The bar had a comfortable, lived-in sort of feel now. Still rough around the edges, but a place where you could relax with a drink and enjoy some music.

A place where you could escape.

The swinging door to the bar’s main area squeaked open, but Bren froze before walking through, his body going rigid and unmoving. A moment later, Six heard it--the scuffle of footsteps in the darkness beyond.

So much for escape. Someone was fucking robbing them.

Her fingers brushed the knife strapped to her thigh, but Bren reached back and stilled her hand. Then he stepped into the bar, moving quickly and silently.

Six kept her hand on her knife, but used the other to catch the swinging door before it closed all the way. The scuffle of footsteps stilled, kicking her heart toward her throat, and she slipped through the door and felt along the inside of the wall for the light panel. Her fingers encountered the bank of switches, and she flattened her palm and swiped them all on at once.

Light blared from every corner of the room--behind the bar, the stage, the booths around the perimeter. And in the center of the floor--

At first, all Six could see was the gun.

The muzzle was all of eight inches from Bren’s forehead. He stood in the middle of the cleared space that served as a dance floor, staring down the panicking kid as if he didn’t have a gun pointed shakily at his brain.

“Well,” Bren murmured. “This is awkward.”

The barrel of the gun wavered. Six held her breath as she followed it to the hand holding it--too small, tense, the thin finger poised to squeeze the trigger. One wrong move, one wrong word, and the kid would shoot. He wouldn’t be able to stop himself.

She studied his face, trying to place him. Dirt smudged his features, which were lean and sharp with hunger. Shaggy brown hair hung over his forehead, almost obscuring dark eyes that flicked back and forth between Six and Bren in a desperate attempt to watch them both.

Then his face hardened, and he tightened his grip. “Get me all the credits you have on hand, or I’ll shoot him.”

Bren didn’t even blink. “It’s only what’s already in the register for tomorrow.”

He swung his attention back to Bren, his face pinched with hopelessness. “I don’t care,” he snarled, and through her rage at the kid for endangering Bren, Six felt a swift, sharp stab of empathy.

She used to be this kid. Her gut hollowed out with hunger, her life hanging on the next petty theft she managed to pull off. Too small and weak to take down a score that would buy her some breathing room. Never really sleeping because even on the nights when her belly was full, resting too soundly was a good way to wake up in the back of some trafficker’s truck--or never wake up at all.

“All right.” Bren tipped his head toward the scarred bar that lined one edge of the room. “She’ll get it--on one condition.”

The boy’s eyes tightened with suspicion. “What?”

“While she’s getting your money, you and I have a conversation.” His gaze fixed on the muzzle hovering near his forehead. “Nothing weird. And you can keep the gun.”

After a tense moment, the kid nodded. “Whatever. Just get the credits.”

Six took a slow step, both hands raised. When she drew even with Bren, she chanced a glance at his face--relaxed, easy but alert. He knew how dangerous the situation was, but he also knew who ultimately held the power.

The kid was stupid. He didn’t even try to move to keep covering both of them--probably thought keeping his gun on the big scary looking man was the smart play. Six turned to lift the part of the counter that granted access to the bar and hesitated, judging the distance to the kid’s back.

Not far. She could probably have the gun out of his hand before he realized he shouldn’t have let a hostage cross behind him just because she had tits.

But Bren’s eyes tightened just a little, a quiet signal she acknowledged with a nod before hoisting the counter up and slipping behind the bar. She ignored the shotgun under the counter for the same reason, using her code on the register to pop open the drawer.

There wasn’t much in it--a few credit sticks, and some of the paper money popular in the sectors. As Six started emptying it into the canvas money sack she kept under the counter, Bren resumed his quiet conversation.

“Plenty of food in the kitchen, but you’re after money. What’s it for?” He tilted his head. “You got friends who need to eat, too?”

The kid’s face shut down with heartbreaking swiftness, and Six felt a familiar lurch in her belly. She knew what the kid was going to say before the words left his mouth. “That’s none of your fucking business.”

“That sounds like a yes to me.” Bren paused. “What happens to them when someone gets the drop on you and you don’t come home?”

Young as he was, their thief was old enough to feel protective--and to understand loyalty. “Why do you give a shit anyway?” he demanded.

“That’s none of your fucking business,” Bren countered. “Let’s just say that, a long time ago, someone had a conversation with me. But that’s a story I only tell my friends.”

Six had heard it. She’d even met the man who had changed Bren’s life--a grizzled old veteran named Coop who still lived inside Eden, saving street kids and offering them whatever they’d take from him--sometimes a new home, sometimes food and shelter, sometimes just enough to get through the night.

But before you could help a street kid, you had to get them to trust you. And Six knew better than anyone how hard it was to trust help that didn’t come with a clear price tag.

She closed the register with a click that made the kid’s shoulders twitch. “I’m coming back around with the money,” she said evenly. “Try not to shoot anyone by mistake.”

“Just shut up and do it.”

“Hey,” Bren snapped. “She’s doing exactly what you asked. Don’t be a shit.”

Six bit her lip to hold back a groan as she ducked back under the counter. Gun pointed at his head? No big deal. Someone giving her a little backtalk? Now Bren got irritable. “It’s fine, Bren.”

“No, it’s not. The armed robbery is understandable. But the attitude is unnecessary.”

Laughter fluttered in Six’s chest, but died abruptly when the gun wavered before steadying to point at Bren’s face again. “Man, you are fucking insane,” the kid snapped.

“Or I want you to think I am.” While the kid was still processing those words, Bren reached out. His hands flashed as he thumped the butt of the pistol, knocking it up and out of the kid’s grip. It arced through the air as his finger slipped out of the trigger guard, and Bren caught it. “But you better hope I’m not, because now I have your gun.”

Of course he tried to bolt. He lunged without looking and almost ran straight into Six, who caught him by the back of his too-big sweatshirt and hauled him back around to face Bren. “Here,” she said, distracting him by smacking him in the chest with the pouch of credits.

The thief’s hands came up on instinct, curling around the treasure in baffled silence.

“You want this back?” Bren dropped the magazine from the pistol and worked the slide, popping free the chambered round that proved the kid had meant business. “You come get it tomorrow. Lunch. Bring your buddies if you want to hear that story of mine.”

Six opened her hand, freeing the boy so abruptly that he tottered forward, almost running into Bren. He righted himself without losing his grip on the bag of credits and spun to bolt for the door.

“Hold up.”

The kid froze.

“You owe the lady an apology before you go.”

The words he muttered weren’t all understandable, but Six made out something close to sorry and waved a hand at him. “Get out of here.”

She didn’t have to say it again. He bolted for the door, leaving it hanging open behind him. The night air spilled in, chilly enough to make her shiver in her short sleeves as she moved to close it and slid the deadbolt into place. “I wasn’t really worried about his bad manners, Bren. He could have put a bullet in you out of sheer fucking nervousness.”

Bren snorted. “You make it sound like I would have let him. I haven’t gone that soft, baby.”

She turned and let herself exhale--maybe fully for the first time since they’d heard the footsteps. Bren was a few steps away, and for a moment she just looked at him. His tough, muscled body. His rough, angular features--the square jaw and the nose that had been broken too many times. He was battered and scarred and still hard, even though the war was behind them.

Bren would probably never get soft. Neither would she. Because both of them could remember being that dumb boy--scared and starving and desperate and, worst of all, helpless.

Didn’t mean she liked it when people waved guns at him. “I know,” she said finally, closing the distance between them. “It just sucks. Someone held a gun on you and I couldn’t even punch their teeth out because it was just some stupid, hungry kid.”

“Come here.” He folded his arms around her, drawing her close to the solid wall of his chest. “We did what we could. The next step is up to him.”

She buried her face against his throat, inhaling the familiar scent of him until it washed away everything else. “I know. It just doesn’t feel like enough.”

“Nothing ever does.” He tipped her face up and smiled. “Your surprise can wait. Let’s get to bed.”

They locked up together, and Six hit the lights, plunging the bar back into darkness. She didn’t know how Bren could navigate the dark hallway so confidently, but she followed him trustingly, resting her hand against the warm skin of his arm as they climbed the stairs.

Their private quarters were secured with a keypad. Bren tapped in the code and the door opened, spilling out soft light. The glow came from the lights in their extremely neglected kitchen, spilling across the steel counter to illuminate their repurposed dining area. The scarred wooden table was covered in their collection of pistols, which they’d been cleaning over takeout the night before.

Definitely more her idea of domestic bliss than screaming babies.

She followed Bren through the door to their bedroom in silence. Not tense or uneasy silence, though--she’d always appreciated that Bren didn’t feel the need to fill every empty space with a torrent of words. As much as she loved Nessa, sometimes it was hard to think around the girl.

Bren gave her space to work through her thoughts as they went through their nightly routine. Six washed her face and braided her hair and tugged on one of Bren’s discarded T-shirts before crawling into bed. Once he’d joined her, she curled into his side and rested her head on his shoulder. “Do you think he’ll come back?”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he traced slow, soothing circles on her back through the soft, worn cloth, just above the scars that crisscrossed her skin. Finally, he sighed. “I can’t remember what it was like anymore, being that kid. Wanting something good to be true, but knowing it probably wasn’t.”

“I remember.” Not the kid part, maybe, but it had only been a few years since she’d been just as feral. Just as desperate. “Was it this hard, waiting for me to trust you?”

He laughed, low and husky. Not quite amused, but more like someone reliving a bittersweet memory. “That was different. It hurt because I wanted it so much.”

She spread her fingers wide over his chest. He had a scar three inches to the right of his heart, one she could find in the dark. She touched it softly. “But I learned to trust you. And you learned to trust Coop, back when you were a kid. It’s possible.”

“Anything is. You taught me that.”

“So how do we do this? How do we get all these kids to let us help?”

“We wait ‘em out. Hope they take a chance on us.”

Six ran her fingers down to the inside of his forearm, where the word HOPE was tattooed in elegant script. Most people thought it was some sort of personal reminder, or a sign that crazy Brendan Donnelly was going soft. Six was one of the few who knew its actual meaning.

Her real name.

For most of her life, that name had felt like a cruel joke. Bren was the one who’d taught her what hope felt like--the terror of it and the joy. The taste of it, the heart-pounding exhilaration of it.

If two orphaned street-kids like them could end up ruling a whole damn sector together, anything was possible. She just had to believe in it. And fight for it.

Luckily, she was really good at fighting.