Page 8 of Descent

“This is a new low,” Circe scoffs as I fall into stride beside her.

“I’m an overachiever.” I shrug, slurring my words slightly. Am I still drunk? Ah. Probably a mild concussion. “And I guarantee I’ll find a way to sink lower, just you wait.”

“Keep it up. And I will keep tracking you down and making sure that you don’t get killed.” Circe presses her lips together like she wants to say more. “Seriously, though. A fucking crocodile?”

“I knew it! You tranqed the fucker, didn’t you?”

“I have no idea what you mean,” she mutters, feigning ignorance.

“That fucking reptile seemed sluggish from the start.”

“Which is why you’re alive.”

“A state of being that I cannot for thelife of me—ha—figure out why you so persistently continue to pursue.”

“I brought you back from the brink of death. You owe me.”

“More likeownme,” I growl, my eyes flicking from side to side. Circe just tilts her head once in acknowledgment as we cross through the atrium of the police plaza.

Every officer in the place keeps their hand on their gun as we leave, their eyes tracking us. Just because she apparently has enough money and clout to jump me out from behind bars doesn’t mean any one of them would hesitate to get a shot off at me.

Almost like they can sense how dangerous I am.

Or maybe it’s her?

Because honestly, Circe radiates deadly grace as much as she draws stares for very different reasons everywhere we go. She’sunbelievably gorgeous in that natural, alluring sort of way. It catches the eye and just as quickly forces it away with a gaze that promises violence.

She’s got the skills and talent to back it all up too.

Maybe more than a match for me.

At the same time, she can turn it all off in a heartbeat. I’ve seen her alter her behavior, her appearance, her demeanor. It’s scary how well she can shift personas.

For the time being, she’s being the version of her that takes care of business and brokers no bullshit as we head to the garage. People clear out of our way, either from seeing the storm clouds brewing in her expression or the wreck that is my face and bloody shirt.

As soon as we hit the bottom of the stairs, she sighs softly, her poise relaxing into the Circe that I loathe and love. A hint of a saunter flicks those eye-popping hips ever so slightly. A bob in her step bounces her most elegant assets, above and below.

“I can’t tell if you’re staring at my ass with your eyelids swollen so bad,” she clips over her shoulder.

“Dream on, goddess.”

“Your words are so sweet yet so bitter.”

“Says the woman who can’t leave me alone. Makes me think you’re sweet on me,” I mutter, heading for the passenger side of her ride. Circe pauses, looking over the car at me.

Hesitation.

A flinch.

“We’ve got a lot to talk about. Best we be on our way.”

“We ain’t got shit to talk about. Not anything I want to talk about, anyway.” But I get in the car, mind my manners. Fighting her in this situation is only going to cause a problem. Better if I play along, look for a way out along the way.

“Ero…” Circe shakes her head, that luxurious mane of wavy chocolate bobbing around her face. “Can you just give me a chance? For old time’s sake?”

Old times.

Because we used to be married. Because we had kids. Because we lost it all somehow.

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