3. Artemis
3 ARTEMIS
The boy cups his bleeding nose.
He stares at me with a baleful expression.
Like I’m the violent one.
I touch my split knuckles and cover them with my other hand.
I’m not violent. I’m just trying to survive.
“I wasn’t going to touch you without permission,” he says to me.
His gaze flicks over my shoulder.
To someone beyond us.
I glare at him. “Whose permission?”
He doesn’t have an answer to that.
I groan. My head pounds.
It takes too long to force my body into motion.
I’m halfway up before I open my eyes.
A hand grips my shoulder.
“Easy,” a gruff male voice says.
“Take it slow.”
I blink hard, the white spots from before receding, and Antonio’s face swims into view.
Familiar, gruff, steadfast Antonio.
He seems vaguely worried, though, and he pushes me back down.
“Just rest a second, Tem,” he says.
“You hit your head.”
“Ugh.”
“Yeah. Sounds about right.” He leans over me, a pen light suddenly glaring into my eyes.
“You might have a concussion.”
I lick my lips.
“What happened?”
“Fainted,” Mel says, somewhere near my feet.
“One of the customers helped me get you into the back, but you were coming to and he left.”
Reese?
My breathing hitches, and I automatically reach for Antonio’s hand.
“What is it?” he asks.
I shake my head. Not in front of Mel.
Not in front of anyone.
He glances over his shoulder at my employee and dismisses her.
The door closes behind her, and I rise back up on my elbows.
I sigh when it registers where we are.
We’re in my freaking apartment, the one tucked away in Bow & Arrow.
It makes sense that we didn’t leave the building, but…
“He carried me all the way here?” I squeak.
“Who is he ?”
My mouth dries.
I sit up and swing my legs off the couch.
This place underwent a serious sterilization after my brother stayed here.
I even got a whole new freaking couch because I didn’t trust him.
And then he snickered and said I should’ve bought a new dining table, too.
Fucker.
Anyway .
“I just, um, recognized him.” I avoid Antonio’s gaze.
“From where?”
I clear my throat.
“You know where.”
He goes quiet.
Then, without warning, he jumps up and rushes out of the apartment.
Well, that’s not good…
“Seems like you’re the one who needs to be watched now.”
My shoulders automatically creep up.
“Can’t a girl make it all the way into her own condo without being accosted?”
I should’ve expected this.
Antonio called and said he was going to take care of it.
He told me to stay at the apartment, seeming to forget that I have the equivalent of a pet at home.
So I grabbed my jacket from my office and drove back to the high-rise in downtown Sterling Falls, and now I’m home.
But I should’ve remembered that this pet likes to bite.
“You don’t give me much of a choice most days,” he says.
“Figured you’d like a taste of your own medicine.”
I flip the lock and slowly turn to face Saint Hart.
Dead best friend’s… whatever he was to her.
Lover, partner, boyfriend.
Although that latter one seems too shallow a word to describe their relationship.
Soul mate?
He sits at the breakfast bar in workout gear.
A tight white shirt that’s nearly translucent, stuck to his skin with sweat and showing off his myriad of tattoos.
He literally has almost no real estate left, minus his face.
And under his shorts, probably.
Is his ass tattooed?
His dick?
Something I’ve only questioned a few times in my life.
But luckily, I’ve never seen either one.
Maybe the tattoos stop mid-thigh.
Except when he scratches his leg and drags up the hem of his shorts, and the ink just keeps going up and up and up…
I shake myself out of that line of thought.
What helps is to picture Nyx’s face, particularly how soft her eyes got when she looked up at Saint.
She was tall and thin, like a graceful willow, and absolutely covered in tattoos.
But when I first met her, she had none.
The artwork she displayed was all Saint’s handiwork.
And then she died, and Saint fell apart.
Which is how he ended up here.
In my condo.
Annoying the shit out of me day in, day out, while I try to keep him alive.
It’s been an exhausting year.
“Who told you?”
He raises his eyebrows.
“Who told me what?”
“That I need watching.”
He shrugs.
I grit my teeth and move past him.
It’s late. Late enough that he should be sleeping.
But, no. Instead, he waits up for me like some sort of psycho.
Just to aggravate me.
“So?” he questions. “You’re not really a fainter. Although I can picture it. I’ve seen you pass out before, when you lose your fights at Olympus…”
I’m going to kill whoever told him.
I yank open the fridge and peer inside.
I’m starting to hate this place.
Like, serious hate. It’s more than just the decor is wrong, or the couch is uncomfortable.
Both of those things are untrue anyway.
I love the way I decorated the unit.
It’s the giant motherfucker sitting on my barstool that makes it unsavory.
“Do you still think about killing yourself?” I ask, bumping the fridge door shut with my hip.
A long coat zipped up to my throat covers my gold dress.
While I’m starting to overheat, I don’t want to reveal what’s underneath.
Saint has a problem with a lot of things, and the way I dress is high on the list.
He glowers at me.
“Why the fuck would you ask that?”
“To see if you still actually need to be here.” The obviously hangs unspoken between us.
“That’s not up to you or me.” He rests his chin on his hand, smiling slightly.
Fucker.
He’s right, though.
Jace King, my brother’s best friend, asked if Saint could move in.
There was no stipulation on how long Saint would have to stay, or who would decide when it was time for Saint to fly the nest.
Although he might need shoving at this point.
I’d love to be the one to do it, too.
Just a quick, hard nudge…
He’s got a mug in front of him and a black metal water bottle beside it.
The more I take him in, the more I realize he might not have been waiting for me , and just drinking himself into an oblivion.
That only happens when he dreams about her.
God , the dreams. Nightmares, one might classify them as.
One of the first nights he was here, sleeping on the couch because the other room wasn’t ready for him, the sounds of his hoarse yelling woke me.
And when I woke him up?
A hand on his shoulder?
He nearly took my head off.
The moment his eyes opened, I’d never seen such hatred.
And that was only the beginning of our war.
But living with Saint is like stepping onto the platform at Olympus.
We wear our masks, and we do our best to inflict mortal blows.
And after a year of it…
I fear the lashes have turned to scars across our backs.
Irreparable damage.
I drift closer to him, until my hips press to the counter and we’re within reach of each other.
There’s no chance of us touching, though.
Jace knew he was putting Saint with the one person he couldn’t hate-fuck his way out of his emotions.
I lift my chin.
And then I move.
I snatch the mug and leap backward at the same time that Saint lunges for it.
He barely misses, his fingers snagging my coat sleeve.
I sneer. “If there’s liquor in this, you owe me.”
He narrows his eyes.
The liquid is amber.
The mug is ice-cold.
So it’s either tea or something else.
I sniff, and the smokey, pungent scent of scotch assaults my nostrils.
I make a face, and he reaches out again.
I swallow it down. Yep , it fucking burns a path down my esophagus.
I set the mug in the sink and point at him.
“You’re not supposed to be drinking.”
“Okay, Mom .”
“Fuck off. Where’s the bottle?”
“Who scared you so bad you fainted?” he asks instead.
I frown.
“Ah, see? You don’t like me pressing on your bruises either.”
It’s got to be around here somewhere.
I yank open cabinet doors, drawers.
Saint watches me, his gaze like a laser on my skin, until I get to the refrigerator.
The freezer.
I find it tucked under a bag of frozen peas, half empty.
The glass is frosted.
He grabs my wrist. His hand is so hot, it might scald me.
But his grip is tight enough that I can’t just pull away.
I gape at him, tugging, but he holds fast and draws me upright.
He kicks the freezer door shut.
“Just leave it,” he says.
“You—”
“I’m not going to get drunk and throw myself off the balcony,” he interrupts.
“I’ve had plenty of opportunity to do that, Artemis, and I haven’t.”
“You think I like being on suicide watch?” I hiss.
“You think Nyx would?—”
“ Don’t say her name .” He pushes me against the refrigerator and slams his hand to the door to the left of my head.
“Don’t. How about we cut you open so your secrets can spill all over the floor? I’m sure they’re just as ugly as mine.”
My mind goes to Reese, and I choke on my laugh.
That’s where we’re at—it’s either laugh at our trauma or fall to it.
“Uglier, Saint,” I whisper.
“You can count on that.”
He drops my wrist, drops his other hand.
It’s like he suddenly realizes how close we’re standing.
One big inhale from both of us, and our chests would brush.
My face flames, and he steps away fast.
“I’m going to bed,” I murmur.
“Who scared you?” he asks under his breath as I’m retreating.
I am not going to answer that.
The answer is way too fucking complicated to even start.
By the time I’ve showered and changed into pajamas, the sun is rising.
I take a particular joy in closing my blackout shades and crawling into bed.
My body is running on empty, and my mind is buzzing with nothing-thoughts.
Sleep should come easy.
It does, but it’s far from restful.
Instead, I dream of dark hallways and pain.
I’m just on the edge of consciousness, tossing and turning, but the burn of ropes against my skin, the crack of my nose breaking, the constant darkness, holds me hostage.
And when I finally wake, I’m alone.
Free of everything except the sheets twisted around my legs.
I kick them off and curl on my side, the panic so visceral I can taste it.
I breathe deeply, touching the bridge of my nose.
That dream was too real, too close to the real hit that broke it once.
Doctors were quick to set it, but no one cared that I had a pair of black eyes.
I learned fast that I was pretty with or without bruises.
And only pretty girls are of value.
There’s sunlight peeking around the edges of my curtains.
I hop out of bed, shivering, trying to literally shake off the dream.
I let the sunlight in, then dress fast and slip from my room.
Saint’s bedroom door—it was an office, but was converted when he moved in—is shut.
It tells me absolutely nothing.
He could be in there awake or sleeping, or gone.
Probably gone, since it’s the middle of the day.
In the elevator, my phone rings.
It takes me a second to fish it from my pocket.
I frown at the name scrolling across the screen.
“Why are you calling me?” I ask instead of a hello.
“I’m not allowed to check up on you?” Wolfe James asks.
My brother’s other best friend, besides Jace King.
The trio are inseparable.
“You are,” I allow. “But it’s suspicious.”
“I was mainly just calling to find out if you’re still fighting tonight.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose.
“Right.”
“You forgot.”
“I… didn’t.”
He scoffs.
“Antonio’s got a security photo of some guy printed out. He wants it plastered everywhere. He was in the sheriff’s office first thing this morning.”
“Shit.” I drop my hand when the door slides open on the parking garage level.
“Who did he talk to?”
“Bradshaw.”
That, at least, is a blessing.
I mentally shift around my to-do list to include an urgent visit to our friendly neighborhood sheriff.
“I’ll be at Olympus tonight,” I tell Wolfe.
“But I’m not fighting.”
“Suit yourself.”
“Who is?”
He pauses.
“Wolfe?”
He’s always been straight with me.
When he and Apollo were kept separate, I was the one holding them together.
That’s a whole different story, though.
That was when Sterling Falls was no better than a warzone.
But the point is, he owes me honesty.
“Don’t shoot the messenger,” he warns.
“But… Saint is fighting.”
I stiffen.
“I’m not going to shoot the messenger. I’m going to shoot him .”
I contemplate turning back around and storming into Saint’s room.
I’d love to start another fight with him, this one about how fucking stupid he is.
“It’s been a year, Tem.” His voice is soft.
“You both?—”
“Don’t,” I whisper.
“It’s not me, Wolfe. Jace put Saint?—”
“You and I both know Jace asked you because you were her best friend.”
Were .
Why is one word so painful?
I get in my car and throw my head back against the seat.
Because when I think about Nyx, my insides go all funny.
Kind of numb and nauseated all at once.
“I don’t want to talk about it. What I do want to talk about is Antonio.”
Antonio, who is taking the appearance of Reese a lot more seriously than I am.
Antonio, who loves me like his child, who would do anything to keep me safe.
He’s not going to let me handle this on my own.
Not after what happened last night.
“Right.” Wolfe sighs.
“I’m getting on my bike now. I’ll meet you at the sheriff’s station.”
I allow a tiny smile.
“Yeah?”
“I can’t let you interrogate Brad alone.”
More like, he can’t pass up an opportunity to help interrogate him.
“See you there,” I manage before he hangs up.
Nathan Bradshaw has been the sheriff forever.
Wolfe, Jace, and my brother like to call him Brad to irritate him.
The sheriff holds an elected position, and I kind of thought he might lose it—or retire at the tender age of thirty-something—after Sterling Falls slipped back into a time of peace.
Wartime leaders are usually replaced once the war is over…
But peace doesn’t usually last either.
It has reigned for a year, though.
A year of rebuilding.
Sterling Falls has been putting itself back together, and I’ve watched tourism come back.
Shops that were boarded up and closed out of fear have reopened.
The oppressive curfew that forced Bow & Arrow, amongst many nighttime businesses, to temporarily close was lifted.
Now… that off feeling is back.
Maybe it’s just a vibe, but I have a suspicion that something bad is about to happen.
I leave the parking garage and drive through the financial district.
The buildings here are tall, all glass and steel, but it’s the only area of the city that truly feels this way.
The rest of it is older, more spread out.
The buildings outside of the financial district were designed to savor the views of the tree-covered hills to the west and the ocean to the east.
Olympus is all the way east. The sheriff’s office, however, is around the corner from the university in the center of town.
It’s only a ten-minute drive from my high-rise, and I pull into the parking lot a few minutes before Wolfe.
He turns off his bike and flicks down the kickstand beside my car.
When he yanks off his helmet, he rakes his hand through his dark hair and grins at me.
“How’s the family?” I ask him.
His blue eyes gleam.
“Busy, per usual.”
“Of course.”
He sets the helmet on the seat and gestures for me to lead the way.
We go up the wide marble steps and into the building, skipping the elevator in favor of the stairs.
First floor is reserved for the officers and detectives under Nathan Bradshaw’s command.
Second floor houses the city council and his offices.
The sheriff’s secretary takes one look at us and goes pale.
She presses a button, murmuring something through her intercom system.
And thirty seconds later, Nathan Bradshaw himself strides out of his double-doored office.
“Artemis,” he greets me.
His hair is so short, it appears light brown.
But his beard is shockingly orange-red.
He’s in his regular dark-green uniform, sans hat, and I can’t help but glance at the gun strapped to his hip.
“And Wolfe,” he adds.
“Brad,” Wolfe says.
I make a face.
“We’re here about Antonio.”
“Ah.” He tips his head, silently inviting us into his office.
Wolfe immediately drops into a chair and kicks his legs out, gazing around.
The windows on the far wall let in a lot of light, and his large desk is relatively uncluttered.
And there’s space, so it’s not a matter of that.
But it still feels cramped.
That weird feeling comes back when Bradshaw extends a printed photo of Reese.
I stare hard at it. Antonio took a screengrab of the security feed when I was passed out in that gold dress.
And, as suspected, Reese was the one to jump to my rescue, because he’s carrying me in the photo.
My stomach knots, and I swallow hard.
It’s like, seeing it now, I can feel his hands on me.
One arm under my knees, his fingers pressing into the side of my thigh.
Bare skin , my mind whispers.
And the other supporting my back, his hand on my ribs.
“Antonio said he was dangerous. That we should arrest him on sight.” Bradshaw leans toward me.
“And judging from your expression…”
Wolfe snatches the paper from him and slams it facedown.
I let out a slow breath.
“I don’t have an expression,” I finally say.
Lie . “Because he’s not dangerous. I just felt sick, passed out, and that guest happened to be willing to help. Antonio assumed the worst.”
“Uh-huh.” Skeptical would be an understatement.
The sheriff turns his attention to Wolfe.
“What do you know?”
He shrugs.
“Just that Tem wouldn’t lie to you. Antonio is protective of her, you know that.”
“I know jack shit,” Bradshaw replies.
I scowl. “You?—”
“Quiet,” he snaps.
“You’re giving me a different story than Antonio, but neither of you have given me a name. Or a reason for these dramatics.” His gaze softens.
“You passed out, Artemis?”
I push my shoulders back.
“I’m fine . We came down here to stop whatever bullshit manhunt you’re dreaming up to hunt for this guy.”
Nathan Bradshaw holds both hands up, a mockery of a surrender.
“Me? I’d do no such thing. Especially not when it’s Antonio asking a favor… for you.”
I wince.
“Artemis,” he repeats.
“You don’t look okay.”
“Jesus.” I shake it off.
“Everyone’s just wound up so tight.”
“A storm is brewing,” Wolfe murmurs.
My attention shoots to him.
He’s still the picture of relaxed in the fucking chair, his ankles crossed.
And he gives me a lazy smile.
“What makes you say that?” Bradshaw asks.
“It’s been too quiet, Brad. It means there are schemes being slotted into place under the radar, and those are the fucking worst.” He stands.
“We’ve done our part squashing the power vacuum Kronos and Cerberus left behind. But a month ago, the squabbles went radio silent. No more issues. Our sources turned up empty.”
A chill sweeps down my spine.
“Something is coming,” he finishes.
He yanks open the office door, and I scramble to follow him.
The last thing I want to be is trapped in a room alone with Nathan Bradshaw.
Wolfe and I walk side by side back to the parking lot, and I finally glance at him.
“You meant that,” I murmur.
His blue eyes fix on me.
“Two of our informants are missing.”
“ Missing -missing, or…”
“Presumed dead.” Wolfe shifts.
“Don’t mention it to Kora. Or Antonio. Or, fuck it, anyone. This guy…” He pulls the paper out and holds it between us.
It’s jarring to see it again.
Him again.
I hadn’t realized he took it.
“Is he trouble, Tem?”
I take the paper from him.
I could get my own, but this seems so much more convenient.
I fold it up so I don’t have to see it anymore and shove it in my back pocket.
And it sucks that Wolfe is so fucking perceptive, because he seems to know exactly what I’m doing.
The answer to his question is probably , but I can’t make myself say that out loud.
So I land on, “I have no fucking clue.”
I can’t condemn Reese without having a conversation.
But that means digging in and actually finding him.
Luckily for me, I know just the person to locate him.