We drive north and north and north, until we near the edge of the city limits. This far from the center of Amazon territory, the buildings are all one and two stories, and a good portion of them are residential. People who can’t afford the higher cost of living nearer to the river. It should set them up for raids from the perimeter, but Aisling has several blocks along the edge of the city converted to what is essentially a kill box. Anyone attempting to invade will be met with force and eliminated.

Both the Mystic faction and ours have something similar, though Ezekiel has been overseeing the revamping of ours. Those blocks in all three territories are part of the reason we chose to return the way we did—using Lammas to force a ceasefire.

Not that any of that shit matters right now, but I’m still trying to wrap my head around the fact that Shiloh is a fucking Amazon and has been this entire time. Monroe is shaking against me, but I can’t see her face to tell if she’s upset or furious, so I just hug her tighter against me. “Shiloh—”

“We’re almost there.” She turns, too sharply, and slams to a stop in front of an empty lot between two buildings. Judging from the charred remains and a few concrete half walls, it wasn’t always empty. She throws the truck into park and climbs out before I can dredge up some kind of verbal response.

What the fuck am I supposed to say?

“An Amazon,” Monroe murmurs. “Her parents were fucking Amazons.” She twists to look up at me, her green eyes shining. “I know this place, Broderick. The people here hurt a child when I was twenty-one, and I killed them and burnt their home to the ground.” Her lower lip quivers before she seems to make an effort to still it. “I killed Shiloh’s parents. I didn’t even know they had a child.”

“How could you have known?” As Shiloh said, Monroe was only fifteen when Shiloh left the city.

“I should have known.” She reaches past me for the door. “They were fucking priests for my mother. She should have known.”

Ah.

That’s the crux of it.

I open the door, and we slowly climb out and join Shiloh where she stands at the curb, staring at the charred remains of her childhood home. Monroe is still moving strangely, but she waves me off when I lean in her direction. She’s right. Shiloh is our priority. I move to stand behind her and carefully wrap my arms around her, moving slow so she can shrug me off if she wants.

She doesn’t.

Shiloh tucks my arms around her like a security blanket and leans back against me, hard. This close, I can feel the fine tremors shuddering through her body. “I’m sorry,” I murmur.