by Staci Hart
As soon as he loosened his hold, she stood briskly and wiped the corner of her mouth. “That one was a freebie. The next one, you’ll earn.”
Ares laughed, the sound arrogant and knowing, and she strutted out of the room, smiling to herself.
He wouldn’t be laughing for long.
Prologue
LEX STRETCHED OUT ON THE couch with her sketchbook resting against her bare thighs, her pencil moving in slow, steady strokes as she watched Dean from across the room.
He sat in his armchair, leaning over his guitar as he strummed and picked a tune, pausing every few minutes to scribble in an open notebook. His dark hair fell forward as he looked down at his fingers, and Lex smiled. She sketched the loose strands, hoping he was too absorbed in his work to push them out of his way.
Dusk shone in through the window, painting the room in shades of orange and yellow. Half of Dean’s face was shrouded in shadow, outlining his elegant nose and lips, filling his bright green eyes with sunshine.
Lex shook herself, realizing she’d stopped sketching as she watched him. He looked up and smiled at her, and her cheeks flushed. She was so gone for him, it wasn’t even funny.
He gave her a look that made her heart flutter as he put down his guitar. When he stood, her eyes trailed down his lean, muscular chest, down the ridges of his abs, and to the hem of his jeans where they hung low on his hips.
Dean looked down at her as he walked over. Her dark hair was piled on top of her head, and her big, blue-green eyes were hot as she looked him over. She moved her legs so he could sit next to her, and he slipped in close, wrapping an arm around her as she nestled into his side.
Her sketchbook laid open, and he reached over to run his finger near his face on her page. He loved her so much, and to see himself through her eyes was a gift. One that he held close. He leaned over to her and pressed a kiss into her forehead.
“I love it.”
“I’m glad.” She closed her sketchbook and set it on the ground before twisting around to sling her legs across his lap. She laid her hand on his jaw, and he heard the scratch of his stubble against her palm. He rested his head against the back of the couch and gazed at her.
She tilted her head to match. “We should get ready. We’re meeting Kara and Roe soon.”
He wound his arm around her waist and pulled her close. “Let’s stay in.”
She giggled as he laid kisses under her jaw. “That’s awfully tempting.”
He moved his hands to her back, grabbed her, and slid her down on the couch. “I can’t help but tempt you, Lex.”
She cupped his face, her eyes never leaving his lips. “You don’t have to try very hard.”
“It’s just that I don’t think I’ll ever get enough of you,” he whispered, before his lips brushed hers.
“You can have all you want, Dean. I’m yours.”
Dita sank into her red velvet couch and sighed with a wistful smile on her lips. “I’m going to miss them.”
Perry turned sideways on the couch and pulled her knees up to her chest. “Me too. They were so much fun,” She pouted. “Ares’ competitions are depressing.”
“I know. It’s the nature of competing with him. ‘Ares’ types aren’t exactly sunshine and lollipops.”
“More like napalm and cigarettes.” Perry rested her chin on her knees. “What kind of player do you think he’s going to choose?”
Dita raised a solitary eyebrow. “What do you think?”
“Probably some asshole with a huge chip on his shoulder.”
Dita shrugged. “They pick what they know.”
“He always picks people with major issues.”
“And then I have to pick people with equally major issues. I know. It’s vicious. I’ve got this, though. When do I ever lose?”
“Never.” Perry eyed Dita. “Are you really ready for this? Ares always gets you so worked up.”
“As ready as I can be. I’ve got my ass kicking boots on and my iPod loaded with girl power.”
Perry continued to mad-dog her. “Are you going to sleep with him?”
“Do you really think that I can stay away from him?”
“You’re usually pretty good at it. But … ”
Dita exhaled out some of the pressure in her chest, a common reaction to the subject. “This time it’s going to be pretty much impossible. Adonis has always been my buffer. He always made me feel like I didn’t need Ares.”
Perry looked like she’d been sucking on a lemon. “Ares is a douchelord, and I hate him.”
“You’re entitled. Part of me hates him, too. He’s so bad for me, but I just can’t help myself.”
“You know,” Perry said, “humans would probably think you were a little whorey.”
Dita laughed and hit Perry with a pillow in the face. “Fuck you, too.”
Perry squealed with her hands up. “I’m just saying. You’re married, and you have two lovers. You’d be a pariah on Earth.”
She folded her arms across her chest, but a small smile played on her lips as she defended herself. “First off, I’m only married on paper. Heff and I have never been married married. Secondly, we’ve been around for eons. Open sexuality kind of comes naturally after a few thousand years. Third, I’m the goddess of love. I’m just staying on top of my game.”
“I know this. But maybe you should work a little harder to stay away from Ares.”
“And how do you suggest I do that? Adonis won’t even speak to me.” Dita stared at the wall, and her lips fell slightly into a frown. “Ares is comfortable. Part of me loves him. Part of me wants to blow him into a billion pieces.”
“I bet you do.” Perry snorted. “I don’t know. Maybe you could get Heff to make you an extra special vibrator.”
Dita’s mouth popped open and she laughed. “That wouldn’t be awkward to ask for at all.”
“Something tells me Heff would rather make you a magical vibrator than see you hook up with Ares.”
“True. But, I think I can hold out.”
Perry rolled her eyes. “Yeah, right.”
Dita looked back in on Lex and Dean, her eyes full of longing. “Well, the good times rolled, and now it’s time for Ares. Bring on the darkness.”
“Ugh.” Perry perked up. “It’s time.”
Dita felt it too. She stood and stretched, then popped her knuckles and gave Perry a high five. “It’s on.”
Day 1
ARES STROLLED INTO THE CROWDED theater room and rolled his eyes at Hermes. The host of the games stood in front of the screen, tall and lean, checking his watch. Ares scanned the room until his eyes found Dita where she sat in a big theater chair. Her legs were bent in front of her, thighs disappearing under an oversized sweater. Her blond, wavy hair fell softly around her face as she looked him over coolly. But even though she tried to look tough, her sapphire eyes twinkled, and he saw a smile just at the edge of her lips. It matched his own.
Hermes huffed, making a show of it. “Ares, have you finally chosen your player? We’ve been waiting all day, and the natives are restless.” He motioned to the seats where the Olympians sat, eyeballing Ares. “I’m not sure why it took you all day, since you had all of last month while Dita competed with Apollo. Though perhaps the god of war should just forfeit when it comes to matters of love?”
Ares scowled as his blood boiled, and his mouth landed on the first thing that came to mind. “I’ve chosen, Herpes—I mean, Hermes.”
The gods laughed, and Hermes glared at him with a sardonic smile on his lips. ““Original and inspiring insult, really. I’m so glad we haven’t inconvenienced you with the competition. You didn’t strain anything choosing your player, did you?”
Ares stalked up to Hermes and snatched the remote from him. “I’m good.” He pointed the remote at the screen and turned the massive television on. Two bloodied men were frozen on the screen with bright lights glaring off their bare, sweaty chests. They stood in a makeshift ring inside a warehouse packed with people chee
ring and yelling with their fists in the air.
One man’s lip curled in fury with his taped fist extended, inches away from connecting with the face of a blond.
Dita snorted. “Please tell me your player is the guy about to get punched in the face.”
He scowled at her and hit play, and the entire room flinched at the smack of skin on skin.
———— New York ————
Dillon saw stars.
Tiny bursts flashed in his vision, and he shook his head to clear them with his fists still up. Patrick bounced around him, but Dillon couldn’t focus as his sight dimmed and brightened with his pulse. He blinked and shook his head again, his other senses dialed up as he waited for his vision to come back to him.
He felt the movement when Patrick swung, and he ducked instinctively. A big arm swept over his head, and as soon as it was clear, Dillon raised up and slammed his opponent in the ribs, going purely by feel. Patrick let out an ‘oof,’ spraying spit and blood on Dillon’s face.
His vision came back, and everything slowed down when he hooked Patrick in the jaw. That was the moment when he felt the power shift, and he took advantage, pummeling a stunned Patrick with a left, a right, another left. His fists flew in quick succession, the percussive sound of the smacks fueling him as he laid into the man.
Patrick staggered and fell to the ground, lying still for a moment before rolling onto to his side to spit out a gob of blood with his head hanging. He tried to lift himself up, but his arm gave out, and he lay out flat on the plywood of the ring.
He didn’t get back up.
Dillon stalked around the ring with his eyes on the man on the ground, unable to break the connection, ready to put him back down if he should get up. The noise of the spectators slowly made its way into the quiet of his mind as Brian ducked under the ropes with a towel and water. Dillon was barely aware as he took the water from Brian and poured it into his mouth, scrubbed a hand over his face, and spat a mouthful of blood-tinged water onto the floor. The ref grabbed Dillon’s hand and lifted it up in the air.
The crowd lost it.
Dillon nodded and threw his free fist into the air, circled the ring for a moment before climbing out of the ring. He followed Brian to the back of the warehouse as people clapped him on the back, calling to him as he passed, but they could have been a million miles away. His body hummed like an engine as the faceless mob pressed in around him.
When they’d left the crowd behind, Dillon sat down on a stack of pallets in the room he’d been assigned to. Brian chattered as Dillon unwound the wraps on his hands and wrists and stuffed them into his bag.
“Did you hear me, man?” Brian held Dillon’s shirt out with his heavy brow raised and a hand hung on his hip.
“Sorry, what?” Dillon took the shirt and pulled it on.
“We’ll meet at MacLennan’s. You’re coming, right?” Brian side-eyed him.
Dillon picked up his bag and hung it on his shoulder as he headed for the back door. He didn’t want to go to the bar. He never wanted to go. All eyes would be on him, something that always made him uncomfortable outside of the ring. When he was in the ring, he didn’t even know they were there.
“Do I have a choice?” Dillon stuffed a hand in his pocket and leaned against the door.
“Not really.” Brian smirked with his meaty arms folded across his broad chest.
He pushed open the door with his back. “Then I’ll be there.”
Brian’s shoulders relaxed. “I’ll settle everything here, and I’ll see you at the bar.”
Dillon nodded, and as the door closed behind him, the cool winter air sharpened his senses another notch.
Warehouses stretched up all around him as he strode to his shiny, black GTO and popped the trunk to throw his bag inside, closing it with a soft thump. When he slipped into the driver’s seat, the red leather creaked underneath him, and he leaned forward to turn the keys in the ignition.
His car thundered all around him, and he gripped the wheel with bloodied, swollen hands. He was going to feel like shit in a few hours, but until then, he wanted to drive.
He took off through the streets of Brooklyn, appreciating every moment that a red light turned green and he could hear his engine climb. When he pulled into the alley behind his brownstone in Brooklyn Heights, the sound of his engine echoed off the buildings around him. He parked in his stupidly expensive garage and closed the door, shutting the evening out behind him.
Dillon climbed the garage stairs, weary and heavy as the adrenaline wore down, to the main floor where he found his brother, Owen, on their L-shaped, black leather couch, reading a book. His dark hair was swept back, and his eyebrows rose as he took in Dillon. Judging by his expression, Dillon figured he looked like shit.
“You look like shit,” Owen said, and Dillon laughed.
“I feel like I look like shit.” Dillon dropped his bag by the stairs.
“How’d it go?”
Dillon stretched. “Long. I won though.”
“Well, I figured that. When was the last time you lost? Three years ago?”
“Four.”
“Such a bad motherfucker.” Owen snapped his book closed. “Want some help from the doctor?”
Dillon cocked a half smile. “If you wouldn’t mind. Though let’s put doctor in quotations. You haven’t graduated yet.”
Owen shrugged. “It’s not like I haven’t had plenty of practice, seeing as how you’ve been getting your ass kicked regularly since you were ten.” Owen gave Dillon a sad smile as he set his book down and stood. His long legs spanned the space between them easily, and when he approached, he leaned forward to give Dillon’s face a once-over. “You may need a stitch or two, but we’ve seen worse, eh? Any broken ribs?”
“Not sure, I’m still amping. I don’t think so, though.”
“Take a deep breath.”
Dillon inhaled deep. “No pain.”
“All right. I’m convinced.” Owen jerked his chin toward the bathroom. “Come on, meathead. Let’s get you camera ready.” He stepped around Dillon and asked over his shoulder, “Where’s the party?”
“MacLennan’s. I’m sure Brian is already there buying rounds with my money,” Dillon said with a smirk as he followed.
“Don’t act like you mind.” Owen opened the cabinet and pulled out a box of supplies.
Dillon got a good look at himself in the wide mirror as Owen went to work lining up bottles, scissors, and bandages on the granite countertop.
Dillon’s blond hair was wild from sweat and the fight, and he turned his head to the side as he rubbed his bruised jaw. A deep cut was actively bleeding under his eye, and his lip was cracked open and swollen. He yanked his shirt over his head and assessed his torso. His sore muscles rippled as he twisted from side to side, and he turned all the way around to look at the bruises on his back.
Dillon leaned down and rinsed his face, wincing when the cold water hit his cuts, wincing even more when he dabbed his face gingerly with a small towel. He took a seat on the edge of the tub and waited for his brother.
Owen ran a washcloth under the cold water and rang it out, folding it into a neat rectangle as walked over to Dillon. He pressed it to the cut under Dillon’s eye.
“Hold this,” he said and turned back to his supplies. He dipped a cotton swab in adrenaline-chloride and leaned in to dab the seeping cut. “That should stop the bleeding.” He leaned in a little closer. “No stitches after all.”
Owen motioned for Dillon to stand. He got up, and Owen circled him, mashing his ribs and kidneys. “Anything?”
Dillon winced. “Just tender.”
“Let’s see the money makers.”
Dillon held out his hands, palms down. His knuckles were split and bleeding, his hands swollen. Owen flipped on the faucet and pulled Dillon’s hands under the stream to scrub them clean. He patted them dry with a fresh towel and inspected them, one at a time, digit by digit. “You are one lucky son of a bitch.”
Dillon snorted. “Luck’s got nothing to do with it.”
“Go put some ice on those, before they get ugly.” Owen turned to pack his supplies up.
“Shower first, then ice.”
Owen raised an eyebrow and sniffed. “Good idea.”
———— Olympus ————
Dita unfolded herself from her seat and walked across the room, very aware of Ares’ eyes on her. She took the remote from him, and when her fingers brushed his palm, she felt it all the way up her arm.
“I think I’ve seen enough to choose my defender. Meet Katsumi.” She smiled playfully at Ares, who smoldered back at her. Her traitorous heart fluttered in her chest. Dammit. She wasn’t going to be able to stay away from him. No way.
A small shiver ran down her back at the thought.
She pointed the remote at the screen and mashed a few buttons. The image flickered from the brothers to an olive-skinned, almond-eyed, Japanese beauty in a 1969 gunmetal gray Camaro, her face the picture of calm concentration as she gripped the steering wheel white-knuckle. When Dita hit play, the low rumble of the engine filled the room.
———— New York ————
Kat glanced over at the red Corvette next to her and revved her engine. The guy inside leered at her, his hair in douchey spikes, his lips curled between his overly manicured goatee. He licked his lips suggestively and flicked his tongue at her.
She rolled her eyes and pumped her accelerator with one foot on the clutch, then turned her attention to her tachometer, watching it redline as she waited for the light to turn green. Her heart banged in her chest, and her Camaro rumbled under her. She squeezed the wheel with one hand, her stick shift with the other, and stared at the red light with her breath frozen in her lungs.
Green.
She let her foot off the clutch, and her wheels smoked, the force pushing her body back in her seat. The Corvette fell behind her.
Kat felt the need to shift and threw the car into second. Out of her periphery, she saw The Goatee nose up. Her foot pressed into the floorboard, and she scanned the streets for traffic as the engine climbed. She slammed it into third. He inched up enough that she could see him glowering at her through the window.