Shift (Hearts and Arrows Book 2)

by Staci Hart

  And when she’d started racing, that was when it had all clicked into place, her feet firmly planted on the path that would carry her through life.

  Her first race had ended with her gun pulled on a motherfucker, and it wasn’t the last. They men she raced tried to swindle, cheat, berate, belittle her. All they’d accomplished was making her work harder. Her mother had asked her so many times why she didn’t just quit.

  Kat would answer, Because that’s what they want.

  The truth was, she loved to race more than anything. No one would take that joy from her just because they were threatened. Because they lost. Because they couldn’t get a visible rise out of her. It was something she shared with her father, and it was something she was good at. The fact that they wanted her to fail just fed her desire to win.

  Headlights shone behind her, illuminating the silhouette of her sister and Owen, the thundering engine growing louder until Dillon pulled to a stop next to her, hanging his arm out the window. His face was lit by the glowing dash, planes and shadows and eyes that sought hers in the dark.

  Everything about him was different. The soft curve of his lips. The line of his jaw, still hard but without the sharpness she’d seen there before. The lines of his shoulders and arms. Even the air between them.

  She had expected a lot of things that night, but the surge of desire was at the bottom of the list.

  So she put on a cocky smile and said with a husky voice, “You ready to get your ass kicked?”

  “Ready as I’ll ever be, I suppose.” His voice was gravelly too, deep and rumbling like his engine, hot like exhaust, and she almost wanted to keep him talking just to hear it more.

  Owen and Kiki slid off her car and walked between them, his arm hanging on her shoulder and hers wound around his waist.

  “Good luck with that,” Owen said with a look at Dillon bordering on pity.

  Kat laughed, revving her engine and peeling out.

  Her heart thumped steadily against her ribs as she pulled up to the light, and a second late, he rolled to a stop next to her. She revved her engine again, watching him with a smile she didn’t want to have. Not that she wanted a fight, but she didn’t want this either. This was dangerous. Because goddamn if he didn’t look good in that shiny black GTO and leather jacket that she bet smelled like heaven with that smile on his face and that look in his eyes.

  Dillon was so one-eighty from the man she’d come to know, she felt dizzy.

  She looked up at the light just as it turned green, her body shifting as she hit the accelerator and shot out in front of him, leaving behind any chance he’d thought he might have at the starting line. Within seconds, he was far enough behind her, she could see his headlights in her rearview. She smiled, and when she shifted gears, she pulled away once and for all, speeding under the last light with two car lengths between them.

  Kat pulled her car over at the edge of the water, and he stopped his car next to er and got out, glancing back at Owen and Kiki walking toward them in the distance.

  Dillon made his way around his car, stopping to lean against his passenger door, and Kat lazily draped her elbow from her window, wondering if she looked as smug as she felt.

  But he wasn’t mad. He wasn’t combative or defensive.

  He was smiling, not with teeth and joy, but with his wide lips closed and a secret behind them.

  “Seems I owe you an apology or two.”

  “Seems so.”

  “I was wrong about you.”

  She shrugged and turned her eyes to the river. “Wouldn’t be the first time I was underestimated.”

  Dillon was quiet, and when she snuck a glance back at him, his eyes were on his combat boots crossed in front of him. He folded his arms with a nod.

  “Well then,” he said as he met her eyes. “I’m sorry for being another asshole at the end of a long line.”

  She smiled — this time, not cocky at all. This time, it was soft with a secret of its own. “That’s one apology.”

  He laughed, the sound taking her back to that first night, that fleeting moment when she’d found herself in his space like it was the first and last place she’d ever want to be.

  “I’m sorry, Kat. I was been a prick, and believe it or not, I didn’t mean to be. You didn’t deserve to be treated the way I treated you, to be spoken to the way I spoke to you.”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  Another nod. “When I’m mad, when I’m on unsteady ground, my mouth takes over.”

  His admissions and honesty had all but disarmed her completely. “I get that. And you weren’t the only one out of line. I was too, and I’m sorry.”

  “You’re forgiven.” His voice was so deep and strong, a voice that could command or calm or carry her away.

  “So are you.”

  They watched each other, the silence between them heavy, their thoughts almost tangible in the space between them.

  On that list of her expectations, an apology wasn’t even at the bottom. It hadn’t even made the list at all. She wondered what had happened, what had changed, and how she was supposed to react, what she was supposed to say.

  Her body reacted on its own — heart speeding up with his eyes on her like they were, her breath coming a little faster, a little shorter. She scanned his face, which wore a mixture of amusement and humbleness, wondering if this version of Dillon was temporary, if something new would set him off and put them back where they’d been. And she found herself curious and conflicted by a glimmer of hope she felt compelled to keep in the dark.

  Dillon broke the quiet between them, his lips tilting into a smirk. “So I feel like I need redemption from … whatever that was. Let’s not call it a race.”

  Kat laughed, and his smirk stretched wider.

  “Come to a fight.”

  “How come?” she asked, playing like she didn’t care. “Wait, did we just become friends?”

  “Pretty sure.” He unfolded his arms and stuffed his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket. “I’ve seen you in your element. Come see me in mine.”

  Her eyes ran over his messy golden hair, and her fingers itched to touch it. She wondered if it was silky and soft like she imagined.

  The silence had gone on too long, and she fumbled for a way to salvage it, hooking her last thought as the color rose in her cheeks.

  “I don’t know, Dillon,” she said, looking off toward the river. “I might need to wash my hair.”

  “Should I beg? Hands and knees? I’m not above it.”

  She pictured him on the pavement and tried not to laugh. “I guess I wouldn’t be opposed to seeing you get your ass kicked in the ring.”

  Dillon pushed off his car and closed the space between them, resting his arms on her roof. He hung down, leaning into her window — their faces were inches apart, so close she thought he might be able to hear her heartbeat as it pumped like a piston in her ribcage. She fought for composure, the scent of him, the feel of him, the charge between them drawing her closer.

  “I don’t lose, Kat. Ever.”

  Her eyes rested on his lips as she said, very softly, “You just did. To me.”

  “Not at my game, I don’t.” His gaze was locked on her eyes; she could feel them tethering her. “The fight’s in a couple of days. Owen knows where it is.”

  She was ruled by her nerves and her heart, both screaming for him. “All right. I’ll be there.”

  They stared at each other in silence, and with a breath, he drew her closer, millimeter by millimeter, her lids fluttering closed and lips on a track for his.

  Kiki sneezed, and they both turned to the sound. Her hand rested on her mouth, her eyes wide with apology, and Owen stifled a smile, clearing his throat as he walked toward his brother, who stood.

  Kat sat back in her seat and took a deep breath, catching her reflection in her rearview. Her cheeks were pink, her lids heavy and green eyes dilated. No amount of deep breathing could calm her.

  “Wow, Dillon. The race was really
… something,” Owen said with a laugh.

  Dillon chuckled. “Yeah, well, that’ll be the last time I talk shit.”

  Kat hung out her window and threw on her hardass, though she felt about as hard as cellophane. “I seriously doubt that.” She waved at Kiki, who smiled with understanding. “See you at home.” Her eyes met Dillon’s again, sending a riot of butterflies through her chest. “And I’ll see you later.”

  He smiled down at his shoes but stole a glance back up at her, their eyes meeting for a long moment before she sat back in her seat and sped away as if she could leave thoughts of Dillon behind her.

  But they followed her all the same.

  The fire crackled at Dita’s side, the sheepskin under her soft and silky, and she toyed with the creamy strands as she flipped the page of her book. The Viking king, Jolgeir, had the kidnapped Hilde captive in the quarters on the ship. He’d just given her a trunk of fancy dresses to wear as an offering — the first sign that he wasn’t a complete brute — which she obviously and obstinately refused.

  Dita shook her head.

  It was only a matter of time until Hilde gave in, and they all knew it. Every woman was a Hilde to some degree. And the brutish men were always harder to refuse, particularly when they showed their soft underbellies. Like Dillon had.

  His hackles were smooth and flat, and he’d lain down at Kat’s feet. And Kat’s heart had softened just a little, just enough.

  Dita could relate. When Ares had first come of age, she couldn’t take him seriously. He was a brute too, plain and simple, demanding and commanding and ordering her about, which everyone knew was the absolute worst way to get her to do anything. But the older he had grown, the more he’d affected her, and the more he’d pressed, the harder it had become to refuse the God of War, born of the King of Gods, built of stone and iron and single-minded resolve. For what he desired most was her.

  He had pursued her with doggedness unmatched by any god or man she’d known in her long life. There was something to be said for his persistence — he had seen the desire in her as plainly as she saw it in him, and like Hilde, there was no denying it. But she would resist. She would make him wait, make him pursue her in a game that she knew she would lose, a game with no rules.

  It was a game they had played for eons, but she still remembered that first night more clearly than the thousands that came after.

  Lanterns swayed in the currents of a gentle breeze, strung across the open space of the wide hall from pillar to ivy-ringed pillar in zigs and zags. The room was golden and the hour late as Aphrodite sipped wine from her chalice with Persephone at her side, the two resting their feet after too long dancing.

  Satyrs played music as they danced around the room, the gods dancing with them in a whirl of robes and fur and laughter. A few of the half-goat immortals played flutes and drums, stomping their hooves and bobbing their heads as their tiny horns moved in time to the music.

  Even Hera seemed to be enjoying herself. She linked arms with a nymph and spun around, her royal-blue robes swirling around her and her head tilted back in laughter, blond curls bouncing to the beat of a satyr’s hooves on the marble floor.

  The alcoves were dark, filled with kissing couples, and she smiled to herself, her work said and done.

  Persephone hiccuped and rested her head on Aphrodite’s shoulder. “I love you, Aphrodite. Have I told you?”

  Aphrodite laughed. “Many times.”

  Persephone lifted her head, the black diamonds in her diadem winking in the candlelight. Her dark hair had been braided and twisted up, and ringlets framed her small, pale face. One eye closed as she pointed at Aphrodite with the index finger of the hand holding her chalice.

  “Good,” she said. “Do not forget that.” She jabbed a finger at Aphrodite, who smiled, eyeing the deep red wine as it sloshed violently in the cup.

  Hades appeared next to her and took her drink, saving Aphrodite’s robes from certain wreckage. They shared a smile as he set the goblet on a small gilded table before slipping one arm around his wife’s waist and one under the bend of her knees, lifting her easily.

  “Well, hello, darling.” Persephone wrapped her arms around his neck.

  He kissed her forehead. “Come, love. Let’s get you to bed.”

  Persephone giggled, hiccuped, and nuzzled into his neck. “Mmm, bed sounds wonderful.”

  With a chuckle and a nod to Aphrodite, he turned to go, leaving her all alone.

  She sighed and took another sip of her wine, glancing around the room. Her eyes rested on a nymph and a centaur kissing ardently in one of the dark recesses, and she watched them with her head tilted, trying to make sense of the hands and arms, contemplating the mechanics of the act that would likely follow — and soon, if she were to wager.

  From the shadows of the arches that led to the gardens, Ares appeared, and her eyes snapped to his. They were shrouded in the low light, but she could feel them on her, feel the thread that connected her to him so tight and real, as if she could pluck and it would thrum a note that spoke to her very soul.

  His was a force she could not deny, no matter how she tried.

  She was warm from the wine, her cheeks flushed as he walked toward her with his jaw set. He wore his golden armor; he hadn’t been seen without it since it left the forge. He sat next to her, lips set in a determined smile, and she found she could not break her gaze from his.

  Aphrodite blinked and took a breath before setting her lips in a flat, apathetic line. “You should take off that helmet. You look ridiculous.”

  She took a sip of her wine, waiting for him to react, which he did. He always did.

  His eyes flashed, but otherwise, he betrayed nothing. The two of them always needled each other, but rather than making the other angry, it sparked something essential in them, something vital. They were fire and tinder, hot and destructive, dangerous and comforting.

  Ares pulled off his helmet and set it next to him, and when his eyes bore into hers, she gripped the stem of her chalice.

  “You play these games,” he said, trailing the backs of his fingers down her bare arm, her skin pricking with gooseflesh in their wake as he looked down at her. “Perhaps I do not wish to play any longer.”

  Closer he leaned until her nerves sizzled and hummed in anticipation, and he said against her lips, “Come with me.”

  A chill rippled down her spine, and she answered with her voice barely above a whisper, “Yes.”

  He stood in a rush of wind and skin and fabric, taking her hand to tow her through the candlelit hallways in the small hours of the morning. To keep up, she had to trot, her robes billowing after her, and when they reached her chambers, he pulled her into the room. She pressed her palm to her stomach, her breath fast and shallow, waiting for him while he closed the doors in the dim room, lit only in firelight.

  Aphrodite had no time to think, no time to wonder; the moment the door was closed, he rushed to her, slipping his hand into her hair and pressing his lips to hers in a single motion, a single breath.

  She was overcome, overwhelmed, his power and hers winding in a union beyond their wants and wishes, driven by a force unexplained, twisting them together until there was no space between them. Their arms and hands held and touched, lips and tongues sealed and tangled, and it was more than she could bear.

  He broke away, still holding her or she would have fallen. With steady fingers, he trailed heat down her neck and to her shoulders, slipping them out of her robes. They fell to the ground in a heap, and he released her, stepping away to drag his eyes over the length of her body.

  When his gaze finally came to rest on her eyes, he moved with decision and lifted her up, carrying her to her bed inside sheer curtains. And as he stood at the foot of the bed, she took in the sight of the God of War, eyes burning for her alone, the candlelight twinkling off his armor like distant suns. Deft hands unclasped his red cloak, letting it fall to the ground in a flutter. His chest plate followed, the shimmering gold gone to leave
him in his robes, which he untied with a tug. And when they fell away, when he was left naked and exposed, the vision stole a piece of her that would never be returned.

  He was trim and lean, the curves and ridges of his body pronounced by the shadows of night. And when he climbed up to meet her, it was only they who existed.

  Ares pressed her into the bed with his body, taking her face in his hands, taking her mouth with unexpected tenderness, with reverence and care, with knowing she felt from the tip of her nose, brushing the bridge of his, down to her toes as they brushed against his legs. He touched her as if he’d touched her a thousand times, with sure hands and lips that said without speaking that all he wished for and all he wanted was in his arms.

  With a trail of kisses, he moved down her neck, between her breasts, taking his time with the curve in his palm and his lips and tongue against her peaked nipple. Down further he went, past the soft swells of her stomach and to the bend of her hip, hooking her thighs over his shoulders. And when he kissed her again, he took her, burned through her, and she was helpless, a slave to his touch.

  Time seemed to slow, marked only by the sweeping of his tongue and the stroke of his hand, the sway of her hips and the whispers of desire.

  When he broke away to kiss up her body once more, she reached for his face, meeting his lips with her own, pulling him down on her until he settled his body between her legs, the length of him pressed against her, sending her hips rolling, her back arching, seeking him, all of him. His crown rested only a hair’s breadth from her aching core, and she angled to force him in. But he kept her wanting — close enough to feel him but without the relief of connection.

  She felt his smiling lips against the skin of her neck, and she whimpered, frenzied and frantic.