by Staci Hart
“I should go,” Dillon muttered, eyes down as he turned to leave.
“No, Dillon. It’s okay,” she said.
“It’s not. Nothing about this is okay.”
She shook her head. “Don’t leave. I saw what happened last night. I saw you. And I don’t believe you would ever hurt her, not on purpose.”
“I wouldn’t hurt her on purpose. I’d hurt her because I lost control.”
“Dillon, I know when someone can’t be stopped, and so does Kat. We’ve seen the difference.”
“Intent doesn’t matter, as much as I want to believe it does. How can I risk her? And how could I ever ask her for a chance to prove it?”
“I don’t know,” she answered sadly. “But if you try, then at least you’ll know you did everything you could.”
They were the same words he’d heard earlier, and they meant as much now as they had then. And he wanted to try. He wanted to throw himself at Kat’s feet and beg for her forgiveness. He wanted absolution. He wanted deliverance.
It was selfish.
It was delusional.
Yet it was all he wanted. But he shook his head and gave up the ghost just the same.
That night, Dillon sat in the back room of the warehouse, wrapping his wrists and hands, the muffled sound of the crowd humming through the corridor.
He had no idea how he was going to survive the fight, not when he’d already been defeated.
His mind was a maze of broken mirrors and dead ends. The beast lay in his cage, beaten silent, unmoving in the darkness. Dillon could summon it no easier than he could subdue it.
And there was no way to change a thing. So he sat, helpless and lost on a crate in the back of a dank and dusty warehouse, staring at his hands, those hands that had betrayed him, wondering how he could make it through the hour. The night. The rest of his life.
Brian walked in, but Dillon didn’t look up.
“It’s time.”
Dillon nodded.
Brian didn’t speak, only watched him for a moment. “Are you ready?”
“Ready as I’m going to get.”
He took a seat across from Dillon, leaning in to catch his eyes. “You didn’t hit her.”
“But I lost her.”
“Maybe you did. Maybe you didn’t. What are you going to do about it?”
Dillon ran a hand across his forehead and squeezed the bridge of his nose. “I don’t know.”
Another pause. “Can you handle this fight?”
“I don’t know that either. But I don’t really have a choice, do I?”
“No, you really don’t.” Brian stood, extending a hand. “Come on. Just try not to get yourself killed.”
Dillon clasped his hand and stood, following his friend into the crowd, up to the ring, under the ropes.
If he hadn’t been numb, he’d have been afraid. Because in the state he was in, fighting was dangerous.
Deadly.
Eagan Kidd was anything but the child his moniker implied. The fighter stood across the ring from him, tall and lean, muscles like sinewy cords around bones that had been rattled and cracked for years in the ring. Kidd was a legend of his own, dominating the circuit before Dillon came up.
He eyed Dillon, spitting onto the floor of the ring, as if to say, Come and get me.
The referee waved them over. “Okay, boys, you know the rules. No holding, biting, kicking, scratching. Nothing below the belt. When your opponent is down, you back off. Got it?”
They nodded and shook hands.
And then the dance began.
Kidd bobbed around Dillon, fists up well before Dillon, who felt slow and thick, like he was underwater. And Kidd saw it.
His fist flew out, popping Dillon in the nose, and Dillon rebounded, giving his head a little shake, his attention caught.
Just not quite enough.
Ares stood in the crowd of screaming humans with his hands in his pockets and a smile on his face as Dillon staggered around the ring. His plan was in place, the details all falling in line like little toy soldiers. All he had to do was march them home.
But first, blood will flow.
Kidd landed hit after hit, and Dillon took each one as if it were penance. Before long, Dillon’s face was bloody, the skin on his ribs and kidneys red and bruising. His eyes were dull, fatigue sloping his shoulders, defeat wafting off of him, and Kidd fed off the scent like a starving animal, swinging and connecting over and over.
Kidd could see the end of the fight, and with sharp eyes, he cocked his fist, body pivoting, putting all his weight behind a punch that connected with Dillon’s jaw.
Dillon spun around, hanging in the air for a moment before arching to the ground, landing on his back. The crowd roared, screaming for him to get up, to stay down, to fuck off, some just screaming. But Dillon didn’t seem to hear them or care what they thought, lying stunned on the ground for a breath, then another, and a third. He rolled over, propping himself on one arm, head hanging. A cough. A rivulet of blood stretching from his lips to the floor of the ring.
It was defeat, written in every shadow of his body, every curve, every struggling breath.
Ares knew it was over, felt the end, felt his own victory in Dillon’s defeat.
Until Dillon raised his eyes to meet Kidd’s.
The noise of the crowd climbed as Dillon picked himself up, eyes burning, the exhaustion gone, replaced with will and thirst and tenacity. Kidd approached, fists up and ready to put him back down. But Dillon didn’t bob. He didn’t juke or shift.
He stalked.
He stopped and swung in one motion, his body still and grounded other than the twist of his shoulders and arms, the viper on his arm striking. The hit connected with Kidd’s nose. Another swing, an uppercut with so much power, Kidd’s feet left the ground. He came down onto his back, out cold.
And when the ref grabbed Dillon’s fist and threw it up into the air, Ares disappeared in the crowd, disgusted with the game, with humans, with Dita. But not with himself.
Never himself.
Day 12
Ares wanted answers.
He waited in the elevator, body tight, mind whirring. Everything was off. The game. Dita. Things looked fine, but they felt wrong.
But he didn’t know why.
It was what he intended to find out.
Something had changed between him and Dita, the air colder, her words shorter. She’d been avoiding him for days — even when they’d fucked the night before, it was brutal, quick and angry — and he wanted to know why. Was it Adonis? Was she waiting for the human to take her back, to forgive her? As if he were owed forgiveness.
He should be begging her favor, kissing her feet, wallowing. He should be thanking the fates for the gift he’d been given and beseeching her to take him back.
He should ben dead. But he wasn’t that either.
But Ares wasn’t sure Adonis was all that stood between them. It could be Apollo. It could be the oath. But that bond protected him, and it had for thousands of years. There was no way for her to know the truth.
No, it had to be Adonis.
Fucking humans.
She was slipping through his fingers, but he wouldn’t let go. He’d never let go.
Ares walked out of the elevator and into her foyer just as she walked out of her room, twisting her hair into a knot.
A flush crept onto her cheeks, her hands stilling when she saw him.
He strolled up, smiling easily, pressing a kiss into her hair when he reached her. She didn’t respond, only finished her bun and lowered her hands.
“Hey,” he said gently, a farce. “Where’ve you been?”
She stepped away from him and moved to the couch to sit, pulling a pillow into her lap. “Around.”
“What’s going on?”
The question was light, but the tension was thick and black. He sat next to her, and he thought she’d backed away, but the motion had been so slight, he didn’t know if he’d imagined it.
&
nbsp; “I’ve just been trying to pick up the pieces from the mess you made with Dillon.”
He smiled playfully. “I think it might be smashed beyond repair. I wouldn’t hold it against you if you gave up.”
Her shoulders relaxed as she rolled her eyes. “When have I ever given up on anything?”
“Never. And when have I?”
She watched him a moment before answering with one level word. “Never.”
“And I’m not about to start now.” He shifted, leaning toward her, and she leaned back. Not imagined. “After all Adonis has put you through, are you going to keep waiting for him?”
Dita looked at him, confused for a moment before shaking her head, clutching the pillow in her lap a little tighter. “I don’t know.”
He pushed the opening. “I’ve always been here. I’ve waited for you. I’ve done as you asked. Aphrodite, I have given you everything, even when you give nothing in return.”
Conflict shone in her eyes, a war of emotion.
“Choose me,” he whispered, touching her face, begging her.
And for a moment, he thought she would submit.
But she jerked her face away. “I haven’t chosen for thousands of years. What makes you think I would do it now? And what makes you think I’d choose you?”
And his thin facade of patience was cast aside like the lie that it was. His face hardened with his heart. “Because we belong together. I thought you would see the fact clearly since Adonis is gone. We are fated, and if you would only see reason, we would be unstoppable. We could rule the world.”
Annoyance rolled off her in waves, pushing him away. “I’m not interested in ruling the world. And we can’t be together, not with all that’s come to pass between us. You’ll never have all of me. This is something you have always known. Always. But you won’t admit it. Why?”
He stiffened, leaning in until his nose was inches from hers, her head pressed into the couch. “What exactly has happened between us? Because I only see that I’ve bent to your will over and over again, and still you throw me away. I don’t wait for anything,” he growled. “But I have waited for you. And you are mine.” He snatched her wrist and twisted.
Dita ripped her hand away and slipped away from him to stand, her face hard and voice cold. “No one owns me, Ares.”
He stood and met her glare. “You have to choose, Aphrodite.”
The wind stirred around them, her eyes glowing. “You do not command me. Leave now, or I will choose, and you will not like my decision.”
Ares stepped into her, and her chin rose in defiance. “You will choose, and you will choose wisely. Because you cannot live without me, no matter what you might think.”
The urge to kiss her, to take her, was so strong, he hadn’t realized his lips were inches from hers. But he broke the spell as she’d bidden, looking at her for a long moment before turning to leave.
But he would answer to her no longer.
The moment Ares turned, Dita was released.
She sank onto the couch with trembling hands once the elevator doors were closed, the tether he had on her waning. Perhaps she couldn’t live without him. Because even under threat and menace, she still wanted him.
There was no way to break the hold. No way to free herself from his prison. And if he’d killed Adonis, she’d have to find a way. And forever.
Would it be enough to fortify her? Could she close the door on him if armed with the truth?
And if the truth were as he’d said for so long, would she stay? Could she stay with Ares, who had no regard for her wants or wishes, no desire for anything but the ownership of her body and soul?
She had a feeling the decision would be impossible to make if he were telling the truth. In that moment, she hoped he had killed Adonis after all. Because the crime and the lies that followed would be unforgivable and undeniable.
There would be no choice to be made.
It was painfully clear that the time for avoiding him was gone. He had reached the end of his patience, and so she would have to choose after all. But not in the way he wanted.
She would choose the truth.
Dita stood, breath shuddering as she walked into her library and to the small box of cypress on her shelf where the vial lay, waiting. And with the answer in her palm, she dropped onto the couch and watched the fire rage.
Dillon’s eyes were on the Brooklyn Bridge, as they had been for hours. He’d found refuge on his rooftop, the day bright but the chill in the air brisk, and it had helped burn away the fog of his mind.
It could have been the beating he’d taken, the evidence of that on his damaged face and bruised body. It could have been the sleep he’d found for the first time in days, his body giving in, too exhausted to fight it any longer.
But he’d woken with some clarity, quiet and crisp, and found himself sitting on the roof in the silence of the city as his companion.
Certain truths had formed in his mind, coalescing from the fog and calcifying. When he’d snapped, something had come over him, something triggered from deep inside his mind and heart. That something had come in the form of the face of the man who had stolen his joy, come to steal it once more like a ghost, a restless soul bound to seek revenge.
Dillon had realized without any lingering doubt that he would never hurt Kat. Because to hurt her, he would have to hurt himself. He found that he wanted to protect her just as much as he protected Owen or his heart.
But he had betrayed his own wishes, those innate beliefs, even if that betrayal was beyond his control.
He also knew that fact did not absolve him from his sins.
His comfort came in the understanding that she was his cure, the balm for his aching soul. That her touch held power, her voice reaching through like a lifeline, pulling him back from the dark.
And he knew one other thing, something he shouldn’t have even allowed himself to consider, but he did, acknowledging it and accepting it, though it didn’t help him let go.
He wanted her back. He wanted her back, and he didn’t deserve her. But he wanted her all the same. And at some point, someday, he was going to try to get her back.
The sliding door opened behind him, and when he looked over his shoulder, he found Kiki.
She smiled, though it was colored with sadness, as was everything he’d touched and things he hadn’t.
“Mind if I join you?” she asked as she approached.
“Not at all,” he answered.
She took a seat, looking out at the city. “Feeling okay?”
“Other than a little beat up?”
Kiki chuckled at that.
“I’m better than I have been. You?”
“Same. A little worried about Kat, but I know she can take care of herself.”
“That, she can.”
A stretch of silence passed.
Kiki broke it with words he hadn’t expected. “I’m sorry.”
He met her eyes, not understanding.
“I’m sorry for what’s happened to you, not just now. Owen … Owen told me about your father.”
He turned to look at her and truly saw her. Her eyes, so much like Kat’s, were green and sincere, her lips a bow, her cheeks and nose peppered with freckles. But Kiki was water, fluid and bubbling and content, and Kat was fire, hot and roaring and hungry. Kiki suited Owen, and Kat suited him.
Dillon didn’t know how to respond.
She spoke on. “I wanted to thank you, too. Thank you for risking yourself for Owen. Thank you for saving him, for taking care of him, for showing him love.”
“There was no other choice, Kiki.”
“There’s always a choice. I know you feel like you’ve only done wrong, but it’s not true. I know you feel like you’ve only hurt Kat, but you haven’t. You’ve changed her. You’ve opened her up to the possibility of more. And I wanted to thank you for that too.”
He shook his head and looked away. “Don’t thank me for that. Not when I’ve hurt her. I’ve hurt her so bad
ly. I don’t know that I’ll ever even see her face again.”
“I have to thank you. Because no one has reached into the fire like you have. No one has made it through, except you. She needed to feel that. She needed to know what it meant.”
“I wanted to give her more,” he said to the city, to the sun, and to the air. To himself.
“I don’t know that it’s too late.”
Dillon met her eyes again. “Please, don’t patronize me.”
“I’m not. I know right now this feels like the end. But I have faith, and you should too. I mean, you should have a healthy sense of fear, too. Let’s be honest. Kat’s scary,” she said with a smile.
He laughed, a small sound but surprising. It was a sound he hadn’t thought he’d hear again so soon. “I’ve got the fear part down. It’s the faith I struggle with.”
“I get that. I mean, not personally because I’m an optimist. But Kat’s been my sister my whole life; I know her as well as I know myself, and you are cut from the same cloth, as they say.”
Dillon nodded, eyes down.
“I had a thought, if you’d like it.”
“I’ll take anything I can get.”
“I think you should call her.”
Surprises seemed to be the theme of the day. “Like, today?”
“Like, now.”
He shook his head, not certain how to pull that off. “You’re going to have to explain that to me, Kiki.”
“She won’t answer. She hasn’t been answering my calls, so I can’t imagine that she’d pick up for you. But if you call, if you ask her to call you, she’ll know you want to talk. She’ll know you care. She’ll think about it. It’s a small step, but it’s a step. And if she comes around, she’ll know the door is open.”
He looked to the city again, the jutting buildings stacked on the skyline. “Do you really think there’s a chance?”
“I have to,” she said simply.
Dillon found hope like light through a prism, bending the light and twisting it, casting it wider. Hope was dangerous. But he did it all the same.
If there were a chance she would even listen to a message, he would try.
He would do anything.
