Page 153 of Kingmakers, Year Four

Ares Cirillo falls silent in the back seat.

As we unload his suitcase from the trunk, Freya sets down her book, watching us.

Ares climbs the steps, setting down his case and holding out his hand to shake.

“Good to see you again, Freya,” he says.

“Are we back to handshakes, then?” she says. “Has it been that long?”

Though I’m standing at the bottom of the steps, I’m almost certain Ares is blushing.

“No,” he says. “That was stupid.”

“You’re not stupid,” she says. “Too slow to visit, maybe. But never stupid.”

She steps forward and Ares puts his arms around her, pulling her against his chest.

The hug is so long that Rafe and I exchange a look, and then a second look. We’re both grinning like idiots. I try to wipe the smile off my face before Freya catches me.

Timo has made dinner for us all. He’s an even better cook than he is a soldier. His homemade gnocchi and grilled peach salad beats anything I’ve had, even in the nicest restaurants down by the beach.

The only person who eats more than me is Zima, Ivan’s technology expert. He spends most of his days in front of his computer rig munching things that came wrapped in cellophane, yet he still remains skinny as a bean. I’ve long since decided that the laws of thermogenesis must not apply to him.

Sloane and Ivan are just as pleased to see Ares as the rest of us. They ask after his family, the bittersweet recounting of his sisters’ dance recitals and his mother’s new job tinged by the absence of Galen Cirillo.

“What’s your plan now?” Ivan asks Ares. “I miss you working for me. Rafe has to go to Las Vegas once a week to keep an eye on the new manager.”

Ares casts a quick look at Freya, then down at his peach salad.

“I was thinking I’d go to school for real. Maybe Cambridge.”

Ivan likewise glances at Freya, raising an eyebrow as he comes to understand.

“Ah,” he says. “Well, I’d be happy to pay your tuition. It’s the least I could do.”

“Thank you, but I have a scholarship,” Ares smiles. “And you did pay me very well for running the dispensaries—even from Kazakhstan.”

Freya hasn’t looked up from her own peach salad, but her cheeks are pink and she seems extraordinarily pleased with the view of her plate.

After dinner, Rafe pulls me into the hall.

“Come for a ride with me,” he says.

“I’d love to,” I say.

I climb on the back of his Indian FTR, that even Sabrina had to admit was pretty fucking boss, despite the stigma of being built within our lifetimes.

Rafe revs the engine, the bike coming to life beneath us, the vibration thrumming through my bones. We speed away from the house, my arms wrapped tight around his waist, our bodies leaning together as one.

We roar down the coastal road.

I love the wild, rocky beaches of Oregon. I love how much it rains, and how deeply, richly green it is everyplace you look.

I press my face against Rafe’s back, smelling the salt in the air, the rich leather of his jacket, and the intoxicating scent of his cologne.

We’ve only been driving a few minutes when he pulls into a small neighborhood along the cliffs. It’s not as fancy as where his parents live—the yards are overgrown with untamed gardens and untrimmed trees, the roofs covered in moss. The houses are small, cedar-plank sided with ramshackle decks. We’ve stopped in front of a cabin so covered in honeysuckle vines that I can hardly see the house at all.

“What do you think?” Rafe asks.

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