Page 37 of God of War

“Reaper, come on, man.”

“I don’t know. Just doesn’t feel right. Rev saw them towing the Sheriff’s patrol car in this morning, tires all shot out. That was you?”

“Lucky shot.”

Reaper chuckles. “Anyway, you’d think after that, we’d have cops swarming the compound. Only it’s dead fucking quiet.”

“And?”

“And it’s like something’s changed.”

Dread sinks into my gut. “Like what?”

Reaper goes quiet, then: “Like Sheriff Jackson’s moved on to something that’s more important to him than taking us down.”

More important means Delaney. And because it’s me with her, that’ll rile him up even more. I felt it last night, the hatred in his voice.

He’s not going to stop until he finds us.

“What’s the plan?”

But I know what the plan is. What Griff will tell me to do. What he’s ordered Reaper to tell me over the phone. There’s nothing that the Wastelanders will protect more than each other. We’re a family — blood brothers — and nothing will stand in the way of that.

“Griff says to ditch the girl.”

No.

The feeling is so strong. So visceral. Before Reaper is even finished saying the words, I know I’m not going to follow that order.

“Lay low,” Reaper continues. “We’ll contact you when we know the heat is off.”

“And what’s Delaney supposed to do?”

Reaper pauses. I think he’s surprised I would ask that. If I knew me like he does, I’d be surprised too.

“She’s not our problem anymore, Ares.”

The swoosh of the thrift store door lets me know I’m not alone. I sense her, feel her in my chest, before I lay eyes on her.

“Ares?”

Reaper’s voice is a buzzing gnat in my ear.

“Copy,” I say. “I get it. I’ll wait for your call.”

I hang up before he can say anything more, and then I turn to Delaney.

My heart stops.

This isn’t the girl I know: scrawny and sharp and angry. The Delaney before me is a woman. Her sundress hits mid-thigh, the fabric light and covered in tiny yellow flowers. It hugs her curves, dipping in the chest to show a hint of cleavage. My eyes follow the gentle sweep of her collar bones, rising up to her pale neck. Her throat bobs with a nervous swallow. Her hair is down, probably combed through with her fingers so it falls in dark, messy waves around her shoulders. Her lips, plump and naturally rosy, are tilted down at the corners. Her eyes narrow at me accusingly.

“What?”

It takes me a minute to recover. I thrust my phone into my pocket and my fingers brush the growing hardness of my cock.

“What the fuck is this?” I say finally, coughing to shift the lump in my throat.

“This is a dress,” she replies, all that sharpness and venom back in her voice with full force.

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