I source shit we need, ensure things function as they should, and problem-solve where there are problems needing solved. I keep track of my brothers, ensure they’re all where they’re supposed to be, that no one has fallen through the cracks.

I leave the compound and take my time driving north 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.