Page 188

Tires screech. Dust kicks up. Silas whoops like he’s on a rollercoaster. Ambrose looks like he’s strongly considering murder as a lifestyle. They travel down the path toward the forest road, glitter helmet catching the last rays of sunlight like a disco ball bouncing off doom.
I stare after them, deadpan.
“Do you think Ambrose regrets every decision that led him to this exact moment?” Luna asks, stepping beside me, her eyes wide.
“I think Ambrose regrets ever meeting us,” I reply. “But especiallythat.”
We both watch in silence as the motorcycle shrinks into the horizon, Silas’s glitter head bobbing with every bump, arms still wrapped around Ambrose like a deranged koala.
And I mutter, “I give it five minutes before he’s thrown off like a sack of sparkle-shit.”
She snorts, and I finally smile. Worth it.
“Ooh,” I drawl, lifting my hand like I’m blessing the chaos that is my life, “I could stasis Silas right now. Just a quick zap—turn him into a decorative lawn gnome.”
Luna’s hand shoots out and grabs my wrist. “Don’t,” she warns, and she’s smiling, but her eyes are daring me.
“He’ll be fine,” I say, tilting my head. “I’ve done this before.”
“That doesn’t make it better,” she snaps back, stepping in front of me. “That makes it worse. You’re addicted to torment.”
“I’m addicted to winning,” I correct her, twisting my hand gently in her grip but not pulling away. Her fingers are warm. Distracting. Everything about her always is.
She tightens her hold. “You wouldn’t win.”
I raise a brow. “Oh? That sounds like a challenge.”
Then she does the unthinkable—she lets go of my wrist and shoves me in the chest.
It’s not hard. Barely a nudge. But the second she does it, something clicks in my brain. The lazy snark, the pretending I don’t care—it doesn’t hold up under provocation. Not from her. Especially not when she’s grinning like that.
“Oh, you’re so dead,” I mutter, lunging forward.
She twists away, fast—faster than I gave her credit for—but I catch her around the waist. She squeals—actual squeals, and I file that away for blackmail—and we hit the grass, limbs tangled, her hair in my face, my arm around her ribs.
“Get off!” she laughs, trying to elbow me, but she’s laughing too hard to aim properly.
“You started it,” I grunt, flipping us so I’m hovering over her, one knee between her thighs, her hoodie riding up just enough to make my brain short-circuit. “You challenged a god. This is on you.”
“A god?” she pants, breathless. “You’re the laziest ‘god’ I’ve ever met.”
“I’m a sloth god,” I murmur, brushing hair out of her face. “We smite at our own pace.”
Her breath catches. The fight simmers to something slower, hotter. She’s still beneath me, pinned, and we both realize it at the same time. The air between us goes sharp. Crackling. Her hands are on my forearms, not pushing me off anymore. Her legs are still parted around mine.
“Elias,” she whispers.
“Yeah?” I say, low. Too low. Because everything about this feels like it’s shifting.
“You’re blushing.”
I blink. “I amnot—”
“You are.” Her grin is wicked now. “You’re blushing, Elias Dain.”
“Shut up,” I groan, trying to roll off her, but she locks her legs around me and I’m stuck. “This is assault.”
“This is justice,” she retorts.