I leave the compound and take my time driving north to toward the bridge that connects Raider territory with Amazon. The last three weeks haven’t changed much on the surface, but I can already see the difference in how people react to the truck I’m driving that marks me as being connected to my family. The first week, people watched us as if expecting violence. Now, most of the suspicion has dissipated, and I even get a few waves.
That cautious acceptance stops the second I cross the bridge. There isn’t a marked difference between the Raider faction and Amazon faction at first. Not unless you count the skyscrapers clustered in the center of their territory. The people still look exactly the same. Normal. So incredibly normal. That’s not the case with the Mystics and their love for dramatic clothing and flowing robes in a mishmash of colors. Amazons don’t go for that kind of in-your-face style. You wouldn’t know they’re even Amazons until they’re sinking a blade between your ribs.
I head for the building at the very center of the territory. It’s a giant steel-and-glass monstrosity that stretches many floors higher than those around it. Any other city in the world, that would just be a coincidence, but not here. Here, this marks the Amazon queen’s work and living space.
Thankfully, I don’t have to get out of the truck or go up. Monroe is one Amazon too many. Her sister seems fine, and her uncle used to be someone who was almost a friend, but Monroe is the very essence of an Amazon. Ruthless and savvy and willing to use whatever weapon is at hand to accomplish her goal.
I’m still not sure what her goal is.
No, that’s not quite true. I might not know her goal when it comes to our factions and the future, but I know her immediate goal.
Get Shiloh into bed with us.
A slow heat curls through me as I catch sight of the women standing on the sidewalk in front of the building. Monroe looks just as good in her green dress as she did this morning, and Shiloh is gorgeous in her customary black tank top and jeans. Her clothes hug her lean body, and I can’t help curling my fingers and remembering how good it felt when she clamped around them.
I can’t believe I agreed to this, but this moment feels almost fated. Like we’ve been on this path, hurtling to this juncture, from the moment we met. Or maybe that’s just what I’m telling myself to excuse taking what I want.
Her.
Them.
Monroe climbs into the truck first. She practically lands in my lap, and then her mouth is on mine. The kiss is messy and a little rough. Fuck, this woman drives me wild. It’s not a comfortable feeling, but I’m slowly getting used to how much I enjoy it.
She leans back and uses her thumb to wipe her lipstick from my mouth. “Missed you.”
“Liar.”
“Only a little.” She laughs. “Are you coming, Shiloh?”
That’s when I notice that Shiloh hasn’t gotten into the truck. She’s staring at us with a strange expression on her face, one I’ve never seen before. It almost appears to be a cross between jealousy and longing, but I afraid to assume. Monroe promised me that we wouldn’t bully Shiloh into doing anything she doesn’t want to do, but part me can’t help the suspicion that she was only in our bed last night for Monroe. Yeah, she got off on my fingers, but it was Monroe’s tongue that pushed her over the edge.
Shiloh gives herself a shake. “Yeah, I’m coming.” She hefts herself up into the truck and shuts the door.
Monroe slides off my lap but stays pressed to my side. “I’d like a favor, husband.”
“What?”
She walks her fingers up my thigh, and it’s everything I can do to keep my physical reaction to a minimum. “I’m parched. I’d like to go get a drink.”
On the other side of her, Shiloh narrows her eyes. “That’s the second time this week.”
“What can I say? I like what I like.” Monroe laughs. “Come out with us, love. It’ll be fun.” She sinks enough innuendo into fun to launch a thousand ships.
Shiloh hesitates but finally nods. “Okay. I guess I could use a drink.”
“That’s our girl,” Monroe murmurs.
Our girl.
The shared term goes straight to my head. As hard as I get off on going head-to-head with Monroe, working together is so much more intoxicating. I keep waiting for the feeling to fade, but it only seems to grow stronger the more time we spend on the same wavelength. It’s enough to make me forget myself, forget the reasons I’m here.
For Shiloh.
For my brothers.
For the faction.
I drive back over the bridge and past the compound and Old Town to a little bar a few blocks south. It’s stood here for decades and used to be a place where Abel, Cohen, and I would drink before we turned twenty-one. The old owner was a friend of our father, and he never bothered to card us. He’s been dead a few years now, and his daughter has run the place ever since. Jennifer is a large white woman who looks like she could crack my head with her bare hands. Her longtime girlfriend, Renée, is a petite Black woman with braids, is her exact opposite, as sweet as she is tiny. She’s the one who waves when we walk through the door and into the dim interior. “Go ahead and sit wherever.”
The place is the same superficially as it was the last time I walked through the door. The bar still stretches across most of the wall across from the door and there are a scattering of tables and chairs, mostly empty. But it’s changed. This place used to be a dump, exactly the kind of bar a person would expect to find minors drinking in because they don’t bother to card. Sticky floors, smoke perpetually gathering in clouds against the
