Page 3 of God of War

"Shit," my brother mutters. "Forgot about that. How long are you going to be?"

"Depends on how long you intend to keep me on the phone." I pluck a copy ofWar and Peacefrom the shelf, rifling through it. It's ancient, the pages so well worn the ink has faded in places. "If you'd leave me alone, I could pick a book already."

"Fine, fine," he says. "But hurry, will you? 'Da says you still need to do a final fitting for your dress."

"Crap. The dress."

"Forgot, didn't you?"

"I didn't forget. I momentarily misremembered."

Niall laughs. "You are so full of shit."

"I get it honest."

"Yeah, you do." Another deep chuckle rolls down the line. "Just hurry it up, will you? And enjoy your dusty, boring bullshit."

"Only people who don't read call books dusty, boring bullshit, Niall." I roll my eyes, beyond being offended. He puts up a good front, but we both know his mind is a fascinating place. If he weren't tethered to the family business, the man could be anything. But Niall is…complicated.

I think he actually enjoys being Second-in-Command to our father. He enjoys breaking the law. He enjoys hiding it. He enjoys getting away with it. The man just enjoys doing all the wrong things. He gets it honest. Our father is the same way.

Dad could be a legitimate businessman. He simply chooses not to do it. He likes being the head of a criminal enterprise. Power is enthralling to him. The cold viciousness of their lifestyle feeds something in his soul. It's the same way for Niall. They thrive on chaos.

It scares me to think that there may be some part of me that's the same way. I don't want to be attracted to the life they lead. I don't want any part of my soul to identify with it. Yet sometimes, I think it might.

Why else do I accept that they are who they are? Why else is it so easy for me to pretend this world isn't as fucked up as it is? I'm complicit in their crimes, and I say nothing. Do nothing. I just…accept it.

I hide from the truth in books because the truth scares me. Books are safer. They're kinder. They understand the parts of my soul that ache for something different. For the freedom to admit who and what I really am.

In books, I can be all the messed-up parts of myself, and they don't judge me for it.

I appreciate that because I judge myself enough.

"See you soon," Niall says before hanging up on me.

"See you soon," I sigh, shoving my phone into my pocket. For a minute, I just stand there, staring into space. I'd much rather skip the damn charity gala altogether than spend yet another night pretending the money my father gives to charity makes up for all the terrible things he and my brother do to make said money. If there's a drug epidemic in this city, they had their hands in creating it. Spilling money into the coffers of the groups trying to clean it up is so damn sadly ironic it's painful. It shouldn't be that way.

But if wishes were wings…well, Niall wouldn't be blowing up my phone constantly, that's for sure. I'd actually have a little real independence instead of the illusion of it I've carved out for myself. My family would be at peace instead of constantly at war with some new enemy, and I wouldn't constantly have to look over my shoulder, wondering when the next attack is going to come.

And in this world, there's always a next attack.

I flick my gaze down at the book in my hand.

"War and Peace," I murmur, tucking the book under my arm. I'm doing my presentation on it. Why not? For a book as old as this one, Tolstoy's themes are a little too relevant to my life.

I spend a few more minutes browsing, picking up several more books to add to my collection, before I turn and head for the front counter. That ridiculous dress isn't going to fit itself. Unfortunately.

I turn the corner, worried about the dress for tomorrow's gala, when I collide with what feels like a solid wall.

"Shit," a man growls, grasping for me.

My books fall from my hands, scattering across the floor as I stumble back, nearly losing my balance.

"I'm so sorry!" Cheeks burning, I drop to my knees to gather the mess of books now scattered across the dusty floor at my feet.

The man kneels to help in his expensive suit. My gaze travels up his muscular arms to broad shoulders and a chiseled jaw. His face is a study in sharp angles and smooth planes, his cheekbones high and defined. Intense amber eyes pin me in place as they lock with mine.

Recognition slams into me like a freight train, turning my blood to ice.

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