Shift (Hearts and Arrows Book 2)

by Staci Hart

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  And they wanted her.

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

  When his eyes fluttered closed, her heart fluttered open.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  And then she was exposed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  It always did.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Kiki blushed.

  Kat worried.

  Dillon sat.

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

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

  “Just water.”

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

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

  He paused. She ignored him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Well, that’s a relief.”

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

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

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

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

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

  “Sure, I’ll give you that.”

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

  “So an investment then?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “A ’69 Camaro.”

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

  “Nine hundred horses.”

  “Holy shit,” he breathed, whistling.

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

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

  “Modded?”

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

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

  “From time to time. You?”

  She nodded. “Quarter mile.”

  His face hardened. “For money?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

  That moment was long fucking gone.

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “She’s dead, so no,” he spat.

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

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

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

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

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