by Staci Hart
And Kat sped off into the night, hoping she could keep that promise.
Kat flipped the bottle cap over and held it flat between her thumb and ring finger. When she snapped, the cap flew across the room and hit the label on a bottle of Canadian Club with a gratifying tink.
It had been a month since that night, and everything seemed fine. This should have come as a relief. She should have found comfort. But there was only the anticipation of the worst.
Eric haunted her, the vision of his eyes, of his voice, of his echoing the words, She’s mine. He would have killed Kiki, she knew. If Kat hadn’t come home, if she hadn’t stopped him, her sister would have died.
Because if he couldn’t have her, no one would. She believed that terrifying truth with all her heart.
That look in his eyes had told her more than he’d said in words, though those had said plenty on their own. He wasn’t going to let her go: his words had been a vow. It wasn’t over, no matter how quiet things had been.
She wondered if it would ever be over. She wondered when she’d be able to rest. But in the end, what Kat wanted didn’t matter. All that mattered was keeping Kiki safe from him.
If she could only tell her father. She considered, it just as she had a hundred times. He would put an end to the nightmare, and they would be free again. But she couldn’t betray Kiki. If Eric died, Kiki wouldn’t forgive her.
If he lived to hurt Kiki again, she didn’t know if she could forgive herself.
No, Kiki was in denial. Her sister, the dreamer. The optimist. She believed the worst was behind them and had turned her face to the sun while Kat looked back to the shadows, waiting for him.
Kat sighed, the circle of the argument complete once again; it was a path she’d walked so much it was a rut with no beginning or end. The inventory clipboard hung on the wall behind her, and she picked it up, turning to the bottles lining the shelves, hoping that, by the time she finished counting the rum, the brothers would be gone.
If only they’d never walked into the bar. Owen was complicating an already complex situation. And Kiki would keep on believing that everything was fine, jumping into the arms of a man who couldn’t protect her or himself against the storm Eric would bring.
Of course, Dillon could protect Kiki too. And if he wasn’t such a fucking asshole, she might have even had faith in him to do just that.
She thought about Kiki and Owen and what it would mean if they started something, wishing again they had met down the road. Kat wanted so badly for Kiki to be happy but at what cost? She wanted Kiki to make her own choices, but she was naive to believe she would ever be safe—not just from Eric, but from anyone.
The entire situation was impossible, a maze with no exit. And Kat had been given the delicate task of finding a way to lead them out.
Dillon slammed his car door shut with a sharp flick of his arm and stormed up the steps into the house.
Fucking disaster.
He was furious, so furious that he’d left his brother at the bar in exchange for driving around Brooklyn with the hopes that it would calm him down.
It hadn’t.
He stomped up the stairs and to his room, pulling off his jacket, then his shirt. Once he kicked off his shoes and traded his jeans for sweats, he trotted back down the stairs to his weight room, flipped on the lights, turned on Pantera, and loaded his barbell. “Mouth for War” raged out of his speakers, and he lay down on the bench and got to work.
With every press, with every firing of nerves and burst of energy, his anger focused on the heat of his muscles and the air in his lungs.
He had no idea why Kat set him off so easily. Every button he had, she pushed. Everything she could say wrong, she did.
He’d done her no kindness either.
And still he found himself thinking about it, replaying the exchange, noting every time they’d lost ground until the moment they slid away from each other.
She was infuriating and intriguing. She was maddening and mysterious. He wanted to know her, and he wanted nothing to do with her. He wanted to kiss her, and he wanted to kill her.
His arms trembled from exertion, each press slower than the one before until he hit his limit, using his reserve energy to hook the bar back in the stand. And then he sat, straddling the bench, fuming.
He didn’t understand why he wanted to know her, why he wanted to see her. To fight with her again, to apologize, to win, to submit — he wanted it all, whether he knew why or not.
Instead of sorting it out, he moved to the squat bar and added weights, trying not to think about his brother and Kiki. He tried not to think of Kat or her eyes or that smile he’d only caught glimpses of. He tried not to think of what he’d said to her.
He tried to rid himself of the desire to take it back. But that was the hardest of all to shake.
The city lights dotted the space out of Ares’s window that night as he sat low on his couch, legs open as he played video games, but he was barely playing attention. His mind was on her.
He’d spent the afternoon in her arms, reacquainting himself with her body. Being with her was like coming home after war, filled with relief and purpose and determination not to squander his lease on life.
Calmness had settled into him that he hadn’t felt in so long, he’d all but forgotten the feeling. It was a rightness, a certainty of his future.
It was hope.
She had submitted, yielded, bent to him, and it was every bit as sweet as he’d known it would be.
The elevator pinged behind him, and he paused the game, looking over his shoulder. His heart skipped when he heard heels clicking in his foyer.
“Dita?” he called, unable to keep the optimism from his voice.
His mother rounded the corner, her blue eyes narrow and red lips in a tight line. “No, it most certainly is not.” Her blond hair was perfectly coiffed, but she ran a hand over it anyway to be sure.
Ares tossed his controller onto the couch and sighed. “Hello, Hera.”
She clipped into the room and sat primly in a blood-red leather armchair, her back straight and stiff. “Please, call me Mother, Mom, or some other respectful term. It’s truly one of the few things I ask of you.” Her elbow rested on the arm of the chair, and she crossed her ankles, the curve of her waist bending her body in an elegant angle like a fashion model from the 50s.
“Yes, Mother.”
“That’s better,” she said, satisfied, as she smoothed out her navy pencil skirt.
“Do you need something?”
“Do I need a reason to visit my son?”
He sighed.
“I’d like to hear your plans for the competition. How’s it coming along?”
Ares threaded his fingers behind his head. “Dandy.”
Her brow rose as she waited for him to continue.
“I’ve got it under control. What more do you want to know?”
“What exactly are your plans? Forgive me, my sweet, but you have never been the strategist of the family. That title is held by your sister.”
He huffed at the insult. Ares and Athena had never gotten along — they fought constantly. He could never beat her, not at games, not at wars, not even at arguments. It was maddening.
Ares offered an abridged version of his plan, knowing he wouldn’t escape until he gave her something. “Well, Dillon can’t keep his mouth closed long enough for Dita to stand a chance. And there’s Eric, the ex-boyfriend. Since Kiki left him, he’s come unhinged, and every day, he’s getting worse. All I have to do is let him loose, and I’ll win.”
“Eric is the key. You can control him, weaponize him. Watch him, watch the game, and use him when the moment is right.” Hera’s smile was cruel, her mouth a red slash. “Oh, Aphrodite won’t be pleased.”
“She definitely will not be pleased. Which is why I don’t know if I’ll use him.”
Hera’s hand stilled as it swept over the cuff of her blouse. “Excuse me?”
“If I lead Eric to the girls
, he’ll kill them. I’ll win the competition, but I’ll lose Aphrodite.”
She stared at him blankly. “I still don’t understand the problem.”
“I have a chance to get her back, and I’m going to take it. Which means, no Eric.” He changed the subject, not interested in arguing. The last thing he needed was to burn his bridge with Hera; he needed her. “So I saw your groupies in action.”
She eyed him but took the lead, not pressing him about Dita. “Jessica is an amusing distraction and a tool already in play to interfere. I’ve been whispering in her ear for so long, her nature is my own.” Hera crossed her legs, shifting in her chair. “You’ll at least try to win, won’t you?”
“Of course I’ll try to win. I just don’t want to kill anybody.”
One very blond, very manicured eyebrow rose.
“Okay, maybe I want to kill some people, but I’m going to try not to,” he conceded.
She dragged in a breath through her nose and let it out out slowly. “Well,” she said shortly, “you have my tokens, should you need any help. Do you have any others?”
Ares unclasped his fingers and crossed his arms over his chest. “A few, but I doubt they’ll help me. I’m not anyone’s favorite anything. I’ve never been the golden boy.”
“No, that title belongs to Apollo, as infuriating as it is. Your father and his illegitimate children. It’s all Aphrodite’s fault.” The color rose in her cheeks, her blue eyes sharp. “She has crossed me more times than I care to consider.” She tugged at the cuff of her blouse again, poorly feigning indifference.
“She’s not trying to get to you. She’s trying to get to Zeus.”
“It only hurts me. Does she honestly think he would be opposed to sleeping with anything and everything that struck his fancy?” She glared at him, but he shook his head.
“What affects him is your wrath.”
Her face relaxed with the exception of that same solitary eyebrow, and she lifted her chin. “Well, I do suppose that is something to fear.” She popped open her purse with a sigh, digging through it for her lipstick and a small mirror. “What do you expect from Aphrodite?”
Ares smirked. What he expected from Dita was hardly appropriate to talk about with his mother. “She’s already gotten the younger siblings interested in each other, I assume to force Kat and Dillon into each other’s space, give them time to warm up. But Dillon is a land mine, and if I set him off, he’ll destroy everything she’s built. I just need to time it right.”
She ran her lipstick over her lips, eyes on her mirror as she pressed them together. “If she’s using the siblings, perhaps we should try to keep them apart.”
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. Why didn’t I think of that? “How do you suggest we do it? The only thing I’ve got is Eric, and I have to save him until I need him—if I use him at all. He’s my last grenade.” He shook his head, thinking it over. “I have no influence on Kiki or Owen; they aren’t aggressive or prone to fighting, not even arguing. And you don’t have much influence over them either. They’re not particularly jealous or proud.”
“No, but you and I have all of New York to choose from if we want to create a diversion. We can create a wedge. My powers are divisive; yours are merely destructive. Even though that has its place, darling,” she added a little hastily as she snapped her mirror closed. “We even have some closer to the point of impact. Like Jessica.”
Ares ran a hand across the stubble of his chin. “What about her?”
“What if she or her little friends were to try to make Dillon jealous?” she asked with a cruel smile. “And what if the nearest object of affection was Owen? And what if Kiki saw this happen? Perhaps we could fan Dillon’s anger a bit while we’re at it. He could be very angry if Owen were hurt somehow by the whole thing.”
One corner of his lips lifted into a smile. “Think it would work?”
She shrugged elegantly. “It’s worth finding out — unless you have a better idea.”
“I’ll think about it,” was all he was willing to commit to.
Her cool eyes assessed him for a moment. “Do you think you can beat her?”
“I usually don’t. But this time … well, there’s a possibility. Kat has her own baggage; she’s not going to make this easy for Dita. The players are volatile, and the situation is explosive, which gives me an edge. So, yes, there’s reason to hope.”
The thought of winning was sweet, so sweet that he found himself smiling. There was nothing he hated more than to lose, especially to her. He’d much prefer to own her. In all ways.
“Well,” Hera said as she dropped her mirror and lipstick into her clutch, “let me know how I can help. Just don’t tell your father. He hates to hear that you and I are scheming.”
Ares rolled his eyes. “Fucking Zeus.”
“Oh, darling. He won’t hurt you. Not with me around.”
His teeth clenched, jaw flexing. “I’m not worried about him hurting me. And I don’t need your protection.”
“Don’t be angry.” She tsked. “I only mean, you needn’t be concerned if he finds out we are scheming. I’m practically the only being who can sway Zeus. I’ll take care of him.”
Ares glanced to the city outside the windows. Of all of Zeus’s children, Ares was the only legitimate son — the heir, born of the union of Zeus and Hera, and yet he was the least favored of all. It should have come as no surprise that the tempestuous relationship between his father and mother would have bred the God of War, and Ares was born into his nature, coddled by his mother and rejected by his father. Maybe it was simply because Ares was a reminder of Hera, whom Zeus resented so much.
She was queen by name alone, never able to rule Zeus’s heart, no matter how much she wished or hoped or tried. She squeezed him with an iron grip to hang on to him, but Zeus would not be told how to feel. Ares had never witnessed kindness between his parents and didn’t believe it had ever existed. And so, Zeus would find his joy with other women, like Leto, his longtime lover who had born him the twins Apollo and Artemis.
Hera hated her so deeply that the only place Leto was safe was in Artemis’s domain — where Zeus could be found on many nights.
Zeus was proud of so many of his children, particularly Apollo and the demigod Hercules, but he forever looked down upon Ares as a curse, a bumbling mistake, and Ares forever found himself fulfilling the prophecy, never able to win his father’s approval, no matter how he’d tried.
Nothing was ever enough.
Even as a small child, Ares had been difficult, unbridled, without thought for consequence. He had been the God of War from the start, finding thrill in the lust of a fight, the madness brought by murder, the survival of self by dominance over another. Forever was he following his instincts, doing what he thought and cared to do, never understanding why it was wrong.
But his mother understood.
She would find him deep in the gardens with his fingers buried in the innards of a rabbit, split open with his knife, and she would pet his hair and whisper sweetness into his ear as she swept the carcass away and washed the smell of death from his hands. She would follow him through the woods on her horse as he ran naked through the brush, spear in hand, mud streaking his face, a battle cry ripping from his throat as he felled a boar with little more than a stick and his bare hands. And she would smile when he laid gifts of blood and flesh at her feet, a smile that reminded him that he was precious to someone. To her.
His father did not have the same affinity for such gifts.
Ares would be met with disdain and disgust, the hot rejection from the one whom he needed it most twisting him, shaping him.
But he never stopped trying.
It was the thought in his head as he ran through the halls of Olympus as a giddy boy who should have been innocent but never would be, not beyond the callow desire to please his father.
Blood dripped from his fingers in a soft pat, pat, pat, a crimson trail on the creamy limestone floors. He could still
feel the thrumming of heartbeats in its warmth.
He sped into the open space of their quarters looking for Zeus. Open walls led to a covered balcony lined with potted cypress trees that stretched to the sky like spears, and the cerulean ocean spread toward the horizon like a glistening mirror of the sky.
Zeus looked up from the scroll in his hand, his massive frame filling the chair at his grand desk so fully that it almost seemed too small, like furniture for a child.
His gray eyes sparked. A shadow passed across his face, his lips flattening. “Ares, a thousand times I have told you—” His eyes traveled down to Ares’s hands. “Is that … blood?”
“Father,” Ares said, standing tall and strong and proud, chin in the air, the picture of pride. “Today, in Olympia, a crowd gathered, an angry mob. The Grecians—”
Ares’s eyes snapped to Athena as she glided in from an antechamber, white robes flowing and nose in the air, moving to stand behind Zeus to watch Ares, assess him, calculate. A small, condescending smile played on her lips, and Ares scowled, unable to stop the flush from creeping up his neck.
Zeus set the scroll down with a pop. “Get on with it, boy.”
Ares turned his attention back to his father and puffed out his chest. “They defiled your statue, and so I passed judgment, a lesson to be learned by all — none shall desecrate the name of the King of Gods without payment in blood.”
“You what?” His voice boomed, and the room dimmed, filling with rolling thunder.
Ares’s smile fell. Athena’s widened.
“What have you done?” Zeus hissed. “Are they … you killed them?”
“Y-yes, Father.” Joy washed out of him and fear took its place. The heartbeats that had delivered the blood to his hands silenced.
“And you believed I would be pleased?” He stood, gray eyes storming.
Ares opened his mouth to speak as his father approached, but the words caught in his dusty throat.
Hera burst through an archway and onto the patio, emerald robes flying behind her like wings, her face wild. As she entered the room, she slowed to a brisk walk, smoothing her robes with shaking hands, painting on a placid smile to mask her distress. Her eyes betrayed her.
