Page 114 of Nemesis

I will not go down that road again.

Something moves in my peripheral vision. I whirl toward it, but I’m too slow. The shadow becomes a beast, which becomes a person. A person with a pipe in their hand.

They swing it at my head, and I am too slow to react. The alcohol in my system thoroughly fucks up my timing.

It smashes into my temple, and that’s it.

Lights out.

32ARTEMIS

Saint is snoringon the couch when I get home. It’s almost dawn, the sky lightening the tiniest amount. I stayed up way too late just talking and drinking with the Bow & Arrow crew. That’s something that we don’t normally get to have, but finally Antonio clapped his hands and sent everyone home.

Tomorrow, we will clean up the mess that the sheriff’s department made.

Tomorrow is really today—but I’m not counting that.

I drop my stuff on the table and glance around.

There’s no sign of Reese.

There are cards on the table, two shot glasses, a mostly empty bottle of whiskey. I go over and nudge Saint’s leg with my foot, and he doesn’t move. For fuck’s sake.

And then an idea occurs to me.

A little payback.

I fill up a pitcher with water and ice and carry it back. I’m exhausted, but I’m also… kind of in the mood for a fight?

So I toss it on his head.

He comes awake with a roar, fists swinging, and I laugh. His gaze jerks around, head swinging wildly. I imagine I looked something like that, too.

Why do we wake up so violently?

Oh, that’s right: because we’re traumatized.

Except he doesn’t just spot me and glower, which is what I expect. He gets up off the couch and lunges at me.

He collides with me, tackling me to the floor. The pitcher—luckily plastic—goes clattering away. He collects my wrists, stopping my fight in my tracks, and pins my hips with his.

It does something to me.

Something it shouldn’t.

“What the fuck, Artemis?” His face hovers over mine, dripping water on my cheeks.

“Where is Reese?”

He groans. Or growls. I can’t quite tell—all I know is that he moves his hips, driving a suddenly very hard erection between my legs.

If we weren’t wearing pants…

“I don’t give a shit about Reese,” he says. “And I fucking hate your guts.”

“Well, I hate yours right back.” My legs open.

He groans and lowers his head to my neck. I think, for a second, that he means to just hide his gaze from me. But then his teeth score my skin, and hebites. Hard.

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