Page 33 of God of War

Her fingers twitch. Her hand makes a minuscule movement to the pocket of her jeans. I lunge and her eyes flash wide.

“No!”

She tries to spin away, but I’m too fast, my fingers already digging in her pocket. My phone tumbles into the dirt and the light goes out. In the dark, I grab her with my other hand and hold her as she thrashes against me. She twists her hips and bucks, swearing at me the whole time.

As I pry her phone from her pocket, she lands a sharp slap to my face and I shove her back. It’s more forceful than I mean to and she hits the ground ass-first. There’s a long beat of quiet.

“You’re an asshole,” she hisses in the dark.

“Yeah, I am.”

I tap her phone to life and use the light to find my own on the ground.

“What’s your passcode?” I demand. She glares up at me, cheeks red.

“There was a tracking app. It was hidden. I found it already, deleted it.”

I don’t say anything, waiting for her to give me the code. I need to check for myself.

“It’s gone,” she insists. “Trust me.”

I scoff. “Fine. I’ll just smash the whole thing.”

I drop her phone unceremoniously to the ground, raise my boot to stomp.

“No!” Delaney screeches. She dashes for the phone, scrabbling in the dirt like an animal. She snatches it up and rocks back on her heels. She clutches the phone to her chest like something precious.

“No,” she says again. It’s quieter. Pleading. “Ares, I… You can’t. Just… please.”

“Why? What’s so important on there that you’d risk Jackson finding us again?”

She swallows hard. She bites her bottom lip. I lunge down—

“Time’s up. Give me the—”

“My sister!”

I pause. It’s something so unexpected, it cracks open my memory like a long-forgotten safe. Sheriff Jackson never charged me with anything that night, even after finding Delaney’s little bookmark in my house. She was safe at home and denied ever coming over. Still, I spent a night in jail and that was enough to get the rumor mill churning. Jackson made it everyone’s business what happened that night. Said that I liked little girls, that little Delaney Jackson never had a chance around me.

The only thing that diverted public attention away from me was the death of Delaney’s mom. In childbirth, I think. All the accusing whispers about me turned into soft concern for Sheriff Jackson, the poor widower who now had an infant and a damaged tween to look after. I’d been so focused on keeping away from Delaney, keeping my head down, that I never even noticed her sister seemed to have disappeared.

“Lilly. Her name’s Lilly,” Delaney continues. She thinks my silence is me waiting for an explanation and not an uncomfortable trip down memory lane.

“She’s seven. She lives with my aunt in Omaha. This is the only way she can get in contact with me. Ares, please.”

This isn’t like her. The begging.

“Goddamnit,” I mutter. I close my eyes for a second. “Fine.”

I flick my fingers at her, motioning to give me the phone. She shakes her head.

“I need the number. I’m going to put it in here.”

I hold up my phone. Delaney softens, her lips parting slightly. She taps in her passcode. Her thumb flicks over the screen, scrolling her contacts. She pulls up the number and holds the phone out. I take it, and add it to my contacts list.

I can’t help but notice the name: Lil, followed by a little purple heart. I can’t imagine a seven-year-old has their own phone, so it must be the aunt’s number. I transfer it over. I don’t add the heart, though, because emojis are fucking stupid. I show it to her. Proof. And she nods again.

“Thank you,” she says. I offer my hand and help her up, then place her phone on a log and look around for a big enough rock.

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