Chapter 27 Harper
HARPER
Irummage through the potions cabinet with my good hand, pushing aside half-emptied bottles and mislabeled jars as I hunt for gauze.
The pain in my palm pulses with every heartbeat, warm and insistent, reminding me of the razor-thin line of blood that sealed an oath I still barely understand.
The cabinet door bangs lightly against its hinges as I shove another row of ingredients aside.
Behind me, Ares sighs, loudly, as though my mere existence is draining him of his will to live.
When I glance over my shoulder, he’s already sprawled into one of the classroom chairs.
Arms crossed. Long legs extended. Head cocked, studying me as though I am the densest creature he has ever been tasked with tolerating.
His expression says he’s assigning the blame for the entire universe’s suffering squarely on me.
“We made a deal. You can leave now,” I snap, wrapping my hand in my ruined shirt to stanch the bleeding.
Ares lifts his palm, not with urgency or theatrics, just a casual flick of his hand. The cut he made moments ago is already gone, sealed into nothing more than a faint silvery line. A scar that looks older than both of us.
My eyes widen despite myself. “How did you heal that quickly?”
He blinks slowly, unimpressed. “Did your father really teach you nothing for all those years?”
The bitter laugh that escapes me surprises even me. “He taught me what fear is. I’m sure you know that, or you wouldn’t be here making deals behind his back.”
It hits him. Not hard, but enough that his gaze stills.
He leans forward, elbows on his knees, posture shifting from lazy disdain to something quieter. The light from the hanging lanterns catches the edges of his features, carving shadows into the lines of his jaw.
“I’m not afraid of your father,” he says evenly. “I’m afraid of what he’ll do with what’s mine.”
The words settle in the air between us, and yet he gives me nothing else, not a flicker of clarity, not a hint of explanation.
A burn of frustration rises in my chest. “What did he take from you?”
I turn back to the cabinet, finally spotting a thin strip of linen tucked behind a basket of empty tincture vials. Before I can reach for it, Ares answers.
“Something he should have never gotten his hands on.” He shifts in the chair, the ink on his forearm sliding into view, dark and unmistakable. Our crest. “Something that puts everyone in danger.”
My eyes snag on the tattoo, unexpected anger sparking in my chest. “Why would you get the Shadeborne ink if you hate him so much?”
He doesn’t hesitate.
“Why do you still call him your father if you hate him so much?”
The words slice deeper than any knife he’s drawn on me, sharper because they’re true in a way I’m still too tangled to admit. My breath stutters as I wrap the linen around my hand, tying the knot tighter than necessary to distract myself from how raw his question leaves me.
I down the vial of Raspar juice beside me, the bitterness coating my tongue before the numbing wave spreads through my hand. The pain eases slightly, but the heat in my chest does not.
I turn toward him fully, and he’s watching me now, not mocking, not bored. Just watching. Seeing far more than I want him to.
He stands slowly, every movement calculated, controlled, the air shifting as if the room recognizes a predator choosing to move again.
“Names,” he says quietly, “don’t make someone family.”
I don’t respond... I can’t, not when every filtered memory of my father and everything he destroyed threatens to rise in my throat.
Ares steps closer, just enough to leave the distance between us brimming with tension rather than fear.
“You think you understand him,” he murmurs, “but you have no idea what he’s become.”
His eyes rake over my bandaged hand, then lift back to mine.
“And if you don’t learn quickly, you won’t survive long enough to.”
“If all you’re going to do is stand there and be a nuisance, you should just leave.”
The words snap out before I can restrain them, sharp as a slapped hand. Frustration coils tight in my chest, urging me toward the door. I grab the handle with the childish hope that the simplest act, leaving, will rid me of him, of his gaze, of the mess in my head.
Behind me, Ares lets out a low breath that could be a laugh or a sigh; it’s hard to tell with him. “You know,” he drawls, “most people enjoy my company.”
I stiffen but don’t turn. “Well, I don’t.”
The lock gives beneath my fingers, then slams back into place so forcefully it vibrates up my arm.
Ares’s hand is splayed across the door beside my own, his palm nearly swallowing the wooden panel. Before I can even gasp, his body closes in behind me. His other hand clamps over my mouth, the shock of it freezing me long enough for him to drag me back from the doorway.
“Quiet,” he breathes against my ear.
He moves with brutal efficiency, no wasted effort, no hesitation.
One strong arm loops across my waist, not crushing but inescapably firm, pinning my arms to my sides as he steers us across the room.
I struggle instinctively, twisting against him, and the movement forces the full line of my back against his chest. His breath stutters once, just once, at the contact before he tightens his hold and keeps pushing us toward the mirrored alcove.
The mirror ripples the moment his shoulder presses into it. A glamoured seam opens, revealing the narrow pocket of shadow tucked behind it, a space barely wide enough for the two of us to fit. He drags me inside and the mirror seals behind us without a sound.
We are pressed together now, no room, no air between us.
His chest rises sharply against my spine with each controlled breath he takes, and the heat of him bleeds through my clothes.
His arm remains locked across my middle, the muscle taut and coiled under my palms where they’re trapped against him.
I thrash once more, automatically, and the movement forces my hips against his. His body goes rigid, his grip tightening for half a heartbeat before he gets control of himself again.
“Be still,” he mouths rather than speaks, his lips brushing the shell of my ear.
Slowly, he removes his hand from my mouth, though his fingers trail along my jaw for a moment longer than necessary, as if warning me not to speak.
Footsteps echo in the corridor.
Then voices.
Two of them, older, cracked like ancient parchment.
The classroom door groans open.
“I smell Shadeborne blood,” the witch croaks, her tone thick with hunger. “Fresh.”
Ares shifts just enough to shield my sightline, but there’s a narrow sliver near his shoulder where I can see.
Two figures glide into the room, their robes swirling with the oily shimmer of Shadeborne glamour.
My father taught his followers that magic, blood-oath magic, binding them to him and rendering them unseen by anyone not of his line.
My stomach flips. Ares is bound by that same oath. That same blood.
The wizard crouches and brushes two fingers along the floor, where droplets of red remain from my torn palm and Ares’s earlier handling. “Parker’s too,” he murmurs. “Seems he’s been roughing up one of Andrew’s children again.”
Parker.
Ares Parker.
His family name.
Against my back, Ares’s heartbeat kicks, one violent jolt, before steadying again.
His arm lowers a fraction, not releasing me, but shifting so he can angle his body more fully between me and the sliver of view.
When I try to lean around him, his hand finds my hip without thought, fingers digging in just enough to hold me still.
The witch wipes my blood onto a handkerchief, lifting it to her nose with grotesque reverence. “That Parker boy is a slippery little bastard,” she rasps. “Andrew should’ve never trusted him to deliver his children.”
Ares’s breath flares hot against the side of my neck, the reaction barely contained. He presses closer, iron and fury and restraint all vibrating through him. His arm tightens until I can feel the tension singing through every tendon, every muscle.
Something in me trembles, not from fear, but from how inescapably, dangerously close we are.
This tight space hides nothing.
Not my pulse hammering in my throat.
Not his breath shaking against my shoulder.
Not the fact that he could have let me go.
And didn’t.
The witch’s voice grates like a rusted hinge. “It doesn’t matter. Soon enough we’ll start picking off Vireldan students. One by one. They’ll have no choice but to surrender themselves.”
The wizard grunts in agreement, bending down again. His fingers smear through the droplets Ares left behind, and then, slowly, reverently, he lifts them to his nose and inhales.
I flinch so hard my shoulder bumps Ares’s ribs.
His reaction is immediate.
Not spoken...felt.
His palm curls around my hip in a fierce, wordless command to stay still.
His other arm bars across my stomach, angling me back, pressing me deeper into the shadow with his body fully blocking my view.
I can see nothing but the edge of his throat now, the hard, taut line of it moving as he swallows whatever violence wants to rip out of him.
The wizard sighs as if savoring perfume.
Disgust curdles in my gut, and my instinct is to recoil, but Ares tightens his hold, drawing me back flush against his chest. The movement forces my spine into the shape of his body; his breath shudders out against my temple.
I can't breathe without feeling the exact rhythm of his breathing.
“I have her blood,” the witch croons. “It’s all he needs to keep tracking her.”
Ares stiffens, so sharply I feel every muscle lock beneath my spine.
“Let’s tell Andrew that Parker has at least made contact with the kids,” she continues. “Andrew can decide for himself what he wants to do with the little shit for keeping it from us.”
The wizard snorts approval. Their wands flash in unison, and the air around them warps with dark magic. A gust presses against the mirror as both figures dissolve into swirling shadow and blink out of sight.
Silence crashes down.
Ares doesn’t move.
Not at first.
His arm stays wrapped tight across my middle, his chest pressed fully to my back as though he expects one of them to reappear. His breath fans hot across the curve of my jaw, too steady to be natural, he’s forcing it, controlling it.
But the tremor in his fingers where they grip my hip betrays him.
We stay like that far too long, his body braced around mine, mine trapped inside his, until the weight of it becomes unbearable, until every shared breath sparks down my spine.
Finally, he exhales once, low and unsteady, before his grip loosens just enough for me to feel the sudden absence of pressure.
But he doesn’t step away.
He doesn’t release me.
He just speaks, voice pitched low enough that only the inches between us could carry it.
“They shouldn’t have been able to track you this fast.”
His breath touches my ear.
His fingers tighten once more on my hip.
“And now,” he adds, quieter, darker, “your father will know I've made contact.”
Ares releases me too slowly, as if peeling himself away takes effort he’d rather not spend. The space between us is thin, crackling. His chest still brushes mine with every breath he forces out, and I haven’t yet decided whether it’s grounding or suffocating.
My voice breaks the silence first.
“Who were those people?”
He doesn’t look at me. His eyes lift toward the ceiling like he’s searching for patience there, exhaustion cutting hard angles into his face.
“More associates of your father,” he mutters. “I haven’t updated them in a few days about where I’ve been. No surprise your father doesn’t fully trust me.”
He drags both hands through his hair, pulling it back from his forehead as frustration ripples through him. For the first time since this started, he looks… worn. Not weak, never that, but tired in a way I recognize too well.
“If you go back,” I ask quietly, “will my father punish you?”
Ares stills mid-breath. Something sharp and agonized flashes in his eyes, gone almost instantly, shuttered behind indifference.
“Probably,” he says, shrugging one shoulder as if talking about a headache instead of torture. “But it’s nothing he hasn’t done before.”
He turns away, boots thudding against the stone as he crosses the room. At the window behind the professor’s desk, he unlatches the iron hook with a swift flick, letting the cold night air rush in. The breeze catches his coat, sending it billowing around him like a shadow unfastened from its host.
He swings one leg over the frame, balancing with ease on the narrow stone ledge. The moonlight catches the scar across his cheek and the gleam of the knife still sheathed at his back. He holds his wand loosely, like he expects another attack or intends to make one.
“So how does this deal work?” I demand, taking a step toward him. “You just show up whenever it suits you?”
Before he answers, someone clears their throat.
A quiet sound.
But it detonates in the room.
Ares’s head snaps toward the door.
Mine follows.
Sebastian stands in the doorway, the light from the hall spilling around him like a halo warped into something fierce. His brows are drawn tight, fury etched into every line of his face. In one hand he holds a wrapped dinner, now tossed onto a desk with a violent clatter.
His gaze spears into Ares first.
Then, slowly, into me.
“I’d like to know the answer to that too,” Sebastian says, voice low, fraying at the edges.
Ares smiles.
“Should I tell him our arrangement, Whitlock,” he drawls, leaning back on one hand against the windowsill, “or will you give me the honor?”
Sebastian steps farther into the room, jaw clenched so hard I can hear the grind of his teeth. His fists flex like he’s restraining himself from doing something reckless, violent, and wholly understandable.
The air thickens between the three of us, Ares perched like a dark omen on the window’s edge, Sebastian bristling with betrayed fury, and me standing in the eye of a storm neither man intends to yield.
Ares’s smile widens, slow and taunting.
“Oh,” he murmurs, “this should be fun.”