Shift (Hearts and Arrows Book 2)

by Staci Hart

  “Please,” she whispered.

  “Say it,” he commanded, his crown grazing her hot center once more.

  She raked her nails across his back, twisting her hips.

  “My name. Say it.” It was a groan and a growl, an undeniable demand.

  And when she did, he gave her what she’d asked for.

  With a flex of his hips, he slid into her, filling her up, and the sigh that passed her lips was heavy and long and sated. When their bodies were a seam, he paused, meeting her eyes and holding them. And then he moved.

  He moved with grace and force, with resolution and purpose. That purpose was to claim her, and she could not resist. He took what he wanted as he gave her everything. With every wave of his body, her own hummed his song, and when she reached the edge, she was lost, more lost than she could ever know in that moment.

  Ares was right behind her with a thrust that sent a shock up her spine, her body pulsing around his, his pulsing inside of her, the two of them joined, their bond forged in the stars. And as they slowed, he kissed her lips again so sweetly that years later, she would look back on the moment and wonder if it had been real or imagined.

  And so it had gone on for years and decades and millennia until Adonis was killed. His death had damaged Dita, torn the fabric of her soul, and she’d never been able to mend it. Suspicion was high, though there was no proof that Ares had been involved, and so she’d thrown herself into Adonis, spending her time and energy with him in Elysium so she could avoid Ares.

  It didn’t always work, but it helped.

  Guilt niggled at her. She’d caved so easily to Ares this time, and now that the gates were open, there would be no closing them. Hilde wouldn’t be able to either once she got started, and neither would Kat.

  There was no reversing gravity.

  The elevator dinged, and a moment later, Ares stormed into her library with a ticking jaw and hot eyes.

  He’d seen the race too.

  Her smile was anything but innocent. “Come to tell me how brilliant I am?”

  “Hardly. I know you think you’ve got this on lock,” he said as he walked around the couch, fists tight, the veins in his hands catching her attention. They were such strong hands. “But you have no idea what I’ve got planned. Don’t get comfortable.”

  She rolled onto her back and held his eyes, shifting her thighs, bending her waist in a seductive curve. Her dress was short and gauzy, and she knew just what he could see and what he couldn’t.

  “But Ares, I do so love to be comfortable.”

  That was all it took. With a growl, he descended on her with hard lips and rough hands. There was no care, no tender touch, no devotion or reverence. He took what he wanted, caring little for what she wished for or desired.

  This was the Ares she knew.

  But she didn’t need anything more than his attention and his body, taking what she needed from him in kind, offering nothing but her body in return. Not that he required an offer. He was a thief and a savage. But she couldn’t find it in herself to care.

  They burned until their bodies were spent and the fire was reduced to glowing embers. She lay tucked into his side, her head resting on his chest, listening to the beat of his heart like a war drum against her ear, feeling sated and sentimental.

  “What are you thinking about?” he asked, the sound distorted, half through her ear against his chest, half through the air between them.

  She laughed softly and propped her chin on her hand. “That has to be the most cliché post-coital question in the history of the world.”

  “True.” He folded his arm behind his head to smile at her. “But I’ve known you long enough. I can almost read your mind. Just wondering if I’m right.”

  “I was just thinking back to our first time.”

  “Mmm.” He brushed her hair from her face. “I wasn’t going to wait another night for you. Not then, not now.”

  Her heart skipped and squeezed. She couldn’t say she was glad he hadn’t waited — not then and not now — but she couldn’t say she was mad about it either. He’d given her love, given her himself, given her children and companionship. But he’d also hurt her, damaged her, caused her pain and trouble and frustration.

  There was no middle ground with him. There never would be.

  So she smiled at him and sighed.

  “Can I ask you something?”

  “Of course.”

  He didn’t speak right away but watched her face, his fingers toying with the ends of her hair. “Why did you choose him?”

  The question with no answer, the question he’d asked so many times. But she had no comfort to offer.

  “We’ve both had mortal lovers,” she said. “Why does Adonis matter so much to you?”

  “Because he matters so much to you.” His voice was soft and low with hurt and futility in the undercurrent. “And when he died, you left me.”

  She stiffened and sat, drawing her knees to her chest with her back to him, as if she could hide. “I don’t want to talk about him, Ares.”

  He moved, and she felt his rough fingers trailing down the soft skin of her back. “All right.”

  Ares pressed a kiss to her shoulder, and the emotion that rose in her chest came from nowhere, carrying sadness and wishes and misspent hope.

  She turned — he was propped on his hand, curved around her body, and she mirrored him like a nesting doll. With one hand, she cupped his face.

  With her eyes and voice and words, she begged, “I don’t want to talk about tomorrow or yesterday. I just want to think about now. Can you give that to me?”

  “I can,” he answered, turning to press a kiss into her palm. “I’ll give you anything.”

  And the hardest thing about it all, the thing that broke her heart when she kissed his lips, was that she knew it was true.

  But he’d take it all, too.

  Day 5

  The sun crept toward the horizon as the city began to stir around Dillon, painting the sky in pinks and blues and yellows of dawn. He leaned on the table, legs crossed on the floor pillow he sat on, flipping the hood of his sweatshirt against the sharp winter air.

  After his quarter mile of shame the night before, he’d come home surprisingly calm and slept surprisingly well, waking before the sun with Kat on his mind. He was struck by the vision of her behind the wheel of her car, more comfortable and at ease than he could have imagined, so much in the place she belonged that the machine seemed to be an extension of her.

  Dillon sensed he’d mended things and wondered how she felt, wondered if she was thinking about him. She’d been predictably wary at first, but softened, warmed up enough that he found himself warm too, the desire to be closer bringing him to the edge of nearly kissing her.

  And she’d almost let him.

  He shook his head in disbelief and picked up his coffee. God, he’d wanted to kiss her so badly. All he’d had to do all along was cool his heels and everything had changed. The shift between them was so complete it overwhelmed him, dragged him under like a riptide. It had been so long since he felt desire like that, and it had been so easy to fall into it, into her.

  And here he’d thought she’d never want to speak to him again.

  He couldn’t help but smile to himself, taking a sip of his coffee, looking ahead to the night she would see him fight, wondering if she would find him as alluring as he’d found her the night before.

  Owen crossed his mind, as he so often did. Dillon spent so much time, so much energy securing Owen’s happiness, thinking little of what would happen once that future was realized and Owen was gone. Maybe it was time Dillon let him go.

  The thought shot through him with a streak of pain in its wake. Because Dillon was lonely — that was a truth he couldn’t deny — but he didn’t know how to be truly alone. He’d always had his brother, and that was all he needed. He’d never wanted anything more for himself, only for Owen.

  After protecting Owen for nearly his entire life, the tho
ught of letting go left him hobbled and unsteady.

  The door slid open behind him, and he glanced over his shoulder to find Owen with a notebook under his arm and a cup of coffee of his own. He took the seat next to Dillon, folding his long legs under the table with a whistle, his eyes trained across the river at Manhattan as the sun rose against their backs.

  “Man, that’s a good one,” Owen said in wonder.

  “What are you doing up so early?”

  “I smelled the coffee, and you know, they say that’s the best part of waking up.” He took a sip to demonstrate. “I have an exam. Figured I could get a little extra study time in.”

  “You always were the responsible one.”

  “Oh, I don’t know about that,” Owen answered.

  The brothers shared a heavy smile.

  Dillon picked up his mug. “What class is the exam for?”

  “Anatomy. We’re working on cadavers.”

  Dillon’s nose wrinkled. “Sounds fun.”

  Owen shrugged. “It’s more fun than you’d think.” Dillon winced, and Owen corrected himself. “Okay, maybe fun isn’t the right word. The insides aren’t what’s disturbing — they’re alien, foreign, without context of humanity. It’s what’s familiar that’s hard. Like noticing the calluses on their hands and wondering what they did to earn them. Seeing the white strip of skin where their wedding band used to rest, wondering how many years it was there before they died.”

  Owen was a thousand miles away, his eyes fixed on the city, and they fell into silence, lost in their thoughts.

  Dillon’s eyes slipped out of focus, considering all the years since their mother had died. Owen had grown, thrived, excelled, fulfilling all of Dillon’s dreams and wishes. Before long, he’d take his last medical exam, and then he’d apply for residency and graduate from med school. He was self-sufficient, accomplished, capable.

  But still Dillon didn’t know how to let go. In putting someone else before himself for so long, as noble as it was, he’d lost himself. He didn’t know how to change something that was innate, intrinsic, automatic. But Owen had taken care of him, too. He’d given his devotion and love to Dillon without question, remaining just as alone as Dillon was, seemingly out of solidarity. Owen had given Dillon love when no one else in the world did.

  And Dillon looked after Owen, and Owen looked after Dillon. It had always been so.

  The boys huddled together on the scratchy couch watching television one night, a few months after their mother died, left alone once again. Almost every night, Jimmy would go to the pub, not bothering to feed them or put them to sleep or make sure they bathed. Dillon took care of that himself. They’d been living on a diet of cereal and peanut butter sandwiches and absolute serenity because they’d been left alone.

  Except when they weren’t.

  When Jimmy was home, the boys were silent, disappearing as much as they could. But his eyes sought Owen whenever they could, watching the boy with hate in his eyes. It was a look Dillon knew, one he understood as plainly as if the words had been said aloud, and the tension was wound so tight, so high, it was ready to snap — and Jimmy along with it.

  He’d killed their mother. Killing Owen would be so much less, so much easier. One hit, one long squeeze, and Owen’s life would be snuffed like a candle.

  But Dillon couldn’t let that happen. He didn’t know if he could stop it, but without Owen, there was nothing left, no brightness in the world, no love. No future.

  The front door opened and slammed shut, and the boys jumped, their faces turning toward the sound.

  Jimmy staggered in, clothes rumpled and shirt half-tucked into his pants, glassy eyes scanning the room. But Dillon kept his eyes on the television screen as Owen leaned into him. They should have already gone to bed. Dillon should have known not to agree to one more show and cursed himself, praying Jimmy would stumble to his room and pass out.

  “Hey, shitehead.”

  Dillon turned to his father with narrow eyes, but Jimmy wasn’t looking at him. He was looking at Owen, who was tucked into Dillon’s side.

  Jimmy sniffed and ran the back of his hand across his nose. “Hey, boyo, I’m talkin’ to you.”

  Owen’s face went chalk white. “Da —”

  Fury passed over Jimmy’s face. “I’m not your da, dickbrain. Get up.”

  Owen’s dark eyes darted to Dillon, his chin quivering as he moved to get up, but Dillon laid a hand on Owen’s and stood to face his father, putting himself between them with hands balled into fists and heart fluttering like bird wings.

  “Da —”

  Jimmy’s eyes were flint, his jaw hard. “Shut the fuck up and get out of the way.” He looked around Dillon to his brother. “Owen, come here. Now!” The words boomed, his finger pointed at the ground in front of him, lips in a sneer straight from hell itself.

  The hair on the back of Dillon’s neck stood on end, his reflexes screaming at him to run, to hide. But he didn’t move. Instead, he clenched his jaw and steeled himself.

  “Leave Owen be.”

  Jimmy laughed, the sound mocking and cruel. “Ooh, smartarse. You’ll try to save him, will you? He ain’t worth the trouble. He’s just the bastard son of your dead ma.” He spat the words with his smile twisting like a gash. “He’s nothin’. He’s nobody. And there ain’t no one who can save him from me, not even you.”

  Dillon glanced back at his brother and flicked his eyes toward the back door. Owen shook his head, and Dillon did it again, his lips pinched in a line, begging him to run.

  Jimmy’s voice was low and much closer than it should have been. “You can’t hide from me, wee Owen.”

  Dillon turned back to his father, finding him only a few paces away and closing the space. “I said, leave him be, Da.”

  His face flashed with anger, his neck red and straining. “You’ll not tell me what to do, boy. I’m your da — that’s certain — and givin’ you licks is my god-earned right. A right you know I’ll take.”

  “I won’t let you hurt him.”

  Jimmy bent into Dillon’s face, his breath stinking. “And you’ll stop me, will you?”

  He lifted his chin to meet his father’s eyes. “I’ll die trying,” he shot, shoulders square and body tight as a spring.

  With a meaty hand, Jimmy grabbed a handful of Dillon’s shirt and twisted. “Your ma said the same and look how she ended up. Careful what you wish for.”

  Dillon’s anger and fear spilled over the top, and with a flash of movement, he cocked his arm back, putting all his weight behind his small fist when he swung, connecting with his father’s eye.

  The smack of skin on skin rang in the room, and Jimmy let Dillon go, stepping back in surprise.

  His hand pressed his eye, pulling it away for inspection with a smile that set every alarm ringing in Dillon’s ears. “Oh-ho, boy. That was a mistake you’re not like to make again.”

  And that smile was the last thing Dillon saw before his world went black.

  It’d happened that way so many times, and Dillon would wake wherever he’d fallen — the kitchen, the living room, once even half under his bed — frantic for Owen. There were places Owen would hide — an alcove in the garage, the crawl space in the basement, the linen closet in the bathroom. Somehow, Jimmy would satisfy the sadist in him on Dillon and forget about Owen until the next night, or a few days later when he was lucky.

  Out of sight, out of mind.

  Dillon looked over at Owen, who pored over his notebook, considering just how far they’d come, how much they’d left behind. How miraculous it was that they had survived and that Owen had made so much of himself. Dillon had too, though in ways that meant little to him, like the money.

  He could add and total his true accomplishments into the boy next to him, the boy who had grown into a man.

  Dillon’s work was done, and realization of his loss of purpose was staggering.

  Owen set down his mug, meeting Dillon’s eyes. “You okay?”

  His smile
was sincere and a lie. “Yeah. You and Kiki have fun last night?”

  Owen’s eyes lit up, his face bright in a millisecond of mentioning her name. “The movie sucked, but we had fun anyway. We watched the whole thing and added bucket of chicken to everything stupid they’d said.”

  Dillon laughed.

  “We can’t let him defeat us — with a bucket of chicken. I only want you — with a bucket of chicken. If we don’t leave now, he’ll kill us — with a bucket of chicken.” Owen’s cheeks were high as he laughed too. “Seriously, if you’re ever stuck in a shitty movie, you have to try it. We couldn’t stop laughing. I thought they were going to kick us out.”

  “Well, I’m glad you found a way to enjoy the pain. Although I feel like you should have known that an action flick with Miley Cyrus as the star was going to be a letdown.”

  Owen shrugged. “That was half the fun. Sometimes, gambles pay off in unforeseen ways. And anyway, I was just glad Kat let her out of the house.”

  “So she’s a little overprotective. I get that.”

  He chuffed. “You would. I can’t believe she’s coming to the fight. I’ve gotta admit, I didn’t see that coming. How’d you convince her?”

  “All I had to do was ask.”

  “Well, we’ll all be there.” Owen raked a hand through his dark hair. “You’re lucky I love you; you know how I feel about watching you fight. I’ve seen enough of you being beaten to last me a lifetime.”

  “I know,” Dillon said quietly. “I never would have asked.”

  “Fortunately you didn’t have to. I offered,” he said with a smirk. “I’ll take full credit for the suggestion, too.”

  But Dillon only felt gratitude. “Thank you, Owen.” For this. For surviving. For existing.

  “Yeah, yeah.” Owen smiled into his coffee before taking a sip.

  And the brothers turned to watch the sun as it hit the tops of the buildings across the river, falling down their long walls to illuminate the city.

  The morning sun slowly tracked its way onto Kat’s face, waking her. A shuffling only gave her deliverance for a moment; there was nowhere the light hadn’t taken over. So she cracked a hesitant eye and reached for her phone.