One package. One gentle push, hopefully in my direction. I scroll and scroll. Antagonizing the opposition’s enforcer isn’t the best idea, but the idea of it alone sends a thrill through my veins.
Ares gave me the address for a reason, right?
I shouldn’t.
I’m already typing.
I shouldn’t.
Add to cart.
I’m toeing the line, but will the Dark Destroyer bite?
There’s only one way to find out. I put in his address and hit send. A momentary “Oh, shit,” makes my thumb hover over the ‘Cancel My Order’ button, but I decide I don’t care enough to take it back.
Then spend the evening flicking through channels, just waiting, scrolling, grinning like a cat who’s left a dead mouse at the door.
Your move, Ice Prince. Your move. Just don’t make me wait too long.
CHAPTER 7
Artemis
If I said I’ve settled in with my new team enough to have them over to my house for pizza night, I’d be straight up lying.
There’s a comfort in surrounding yourself with those you love when you feel off beat.
The old gang’s all here. The apartment smells like pepperoni and nostalgia—my whole chaotic hockey family and their significant others crammed into one room. Laughter bounces off the walls, gaming controllers click, and someone’s yelling about blue shells.
Then the doorbell rings, and just like that, the warmth ices over. Everyone looks at me. Their faces are comical. Almost everyone I know and love is here. I’m not a social butterfly, or a party person with a big social circle, and we’re not waiting for food to arrive, so… who is at the door?
“It’s a delivery.” Apollo calls from the hall where my buzzer is. His words are followed by a loud buzzing sound.
I’m not expecting anything, but that doesn’t mean shit. I have subscriptions to various supplements, and home shit that often arrives before—or indeed after—it’s supposedto. Not waiting to find out what it is, I head into the kitchen to get everyone another round of drinks, picking up a few discarded, empty pizza boxes and bottles on my way.
When I turn around, my sister’s clutching a box to her chest. “Who’s ‘Goal Daddy’?”
My stomach swoops into free fall, and with it, I imagine every ounce of color from my face because Hen’s lips twitch at the corner. “Wh-what?” I never stutter. I only speak when the words are solid in my mouth, a trait conditioned into all four of us by our father figure.
So, my sister’s knowing smirk grows.
I reach for the box too fast. I’m too desperate. Her brows lift, and without a word passing between us, I know I’ve given something away.
She wiggles the box at me holding it too tightly and just too far out of reach for me to grab it out of her hands. “The label says the sender isGoal Daddy. Sounds…” She purses her lips, not dropping eye contact. “Personal.”
She listens to the box. “It’s not ticking.”
I reach for it, but she again, she steps juuuuust out of reach. “Hen.” My voice is low, a growl almost, as it piggybacks on the quickening beat racing through my veins. What the hell did he send me?
Howthe hell did he send me anything?
Is he a stalker?
Do I actually care? Do I want a walking red flag sending shit to my home? The flutter of excitement as my stomach flips tells me I wouldn’t give a shit if hewasa stalker, and while that should be pathetic, it makes my nostrils flare as I fight a smile.
I hiss out a slow sigh. Hen won’t give up the package unless I give her something. And from the mischievous gleam in her eye, I have thirty seconds before she walks into my living room and tears this box open in front of everyone.
My stomach hardens. I don’t want them to know what’s in here. I might not have expected it, or wanted it, but now it’s here, it feels… like she said, personal. And I want to experience it for myself,bymyself.
