Chapter 2 Ares
ARES
She doesn't flinch when the car door slams. Doesn't even look at me. Just smooths that white dress over her thighs like we're headed to a fucking garden party.
I knew marrying Stavros Petrou's niece would come with complications, but this wasn't what I expected. The stone-faced bride. The empty eyes. The lack of, well, anything.
It's like she's already dead.
The car pulls away from the curb, and I watch her from the corner of my eye. No nervous fidgeting. No questions about where we're going. Not even a sidelong glance.
I drape my arm across the back of the seat.
I can out wait her.
Minutes pass. The streets of Kalamata thin out as we head toward the countryside. Buildings give way to scattered villas, then to empty stretches of road lined with olive trees.
Still, she doesn't speak.
She's either very brave or very stupid.
Either way, at least she has her looks. She may seem like a hollow doll, but I can't deny the fact that she's beautiful. I mean, I wouldn't have agreed to this otherwise.
"Nothing to say, wife?" I finally break the silence, testing how long she'll maintain this front.
Katerina's eyes flick to me, then back to the window. "Should I have something to say?"
The corner of my mouth twitches. Not quite a smile. "Given the circumstance, brides tend to have questions on their wedding day."
"I'm not most brides."
No, she certainly isn't.
"We're not going to the reception," I say, watching for a reaction.
"I gathered."
Another ten minutes of silence. The road narrows, winding through hills.
We're almost there.
I tap my fingers against the leather seat. "You're not wondering where I'm taking you?"
"Would you tell me if I asked?"
"No."
She nods once. "Then why waste the breath?"
I laugh. I can't help it. It's short and sharp. "Your uncle warned me you'd be difficult."
"Yeah, well, my uncle never understood me."
The car slows as we approach the turnoff, a narrow dirt road that disappears into a grove of trees. My driver takes it without being told, the car bouncing slightly as we transition from pavement to gravel.
Katerina's fingers tighten on her dress, just slightly. It's the first sign of tension I've seen from her.
"Do you know what happens to brides on their wedding day, Katerina?" I ask, my voice low.
She doesn't answer.
"They receive gifts." I lean in, close enough that I catch the faintest scent of her perfume. Light. Barely noticeable. But it's there. Just like her. "And I have a gift for you."
Her jaw tightens. "I don't want anything from you."
"It's not about what you want."
The road curves sharply, and the trees part to reveal an abandoned structure—a small stone outbuilding that might once have been a storage facility for olives or wine.
The car stops.
"What is this place?" she asks, and I savor the question. It's the first real one she's offered.
"Where you'll receive your wedding present."
Her eyes darken. Not with fear, but with something else. "And if I refuse?"
I reach across her and open her door. "You won't."
She doesn't move.
"Get out of the car, Katerina."
She remains still.
I smile because her little show is ridiculous. "You will get out of this car, or I will drag you out. Your choice."
For a moment, I think she'll fight, and part of me hopes she will. It would give me an excuse to put my hands on her, to assert dominance early.
But she surprises me. She steps out, her movements graceful despite the bulky wedding dress.
She walks a half-step behind me, her heels unsteady on the rough ground. I don't offer my arm. I want to see if she'll stumble. If she'll ask for help.
She doesn't.
As we approach the stone building, she stops suddenly.
She sees it.
We stay there for a moment, the breeze now laced with traces of gasoline.
At the center stands a wooden post, and tied to it is a man.
He's middle-aged, bruised, bloodied. Barely conscious. His clothes are torn, and he's doused in what I'm sure she can now smell.
Leading away from the pole to a box just up ahead is a trail of liquid that's hungry for fire.
I watch Katerina closely, waiting for horror, for disgust, for her to turn and run.
Instead, she looks at me and asks, "What the hell is this?"
"A bride is supposed to unwrap surprises on her wedding day," I say and continue walking to the box in front of us. "Mine comes tied to a post, drenched in gasoline."
I approach the box and pick up the lighter that's set on top of it.
She doesn't say anything. She just stands still.
"Come over here," I call to her, but she doesn't move.
"Katerina. Come over here."
Nothing.
I walk over, grab her wrist, and pull her back to the exact spot I picked out for us to stand.
"Now, you should watch. I thought you'd want to see justice."
I flick the lighter open, and the small flame glows in front of me. I glance at the tied-up man, at her, and then I toss the lighter.
It spins through the air before it lands in the gasoline-soaked path leading to the wooden post.
A flame erupts instantly. It races along the trail like a living thing, devouring the ground between us and him. The fire roars as it reaches the post, climbing up the man's legs.
He starts to scream.
Not just any scream—a sound that tears through the countryside, primal and raw. His body jerks against the ropes binding him to the post, the sudden surge of adrenaline giving him strength he didn't have moments ago. His eyes bulge, fixed on Katerina in desperate, wordless pleading.
The flames consume his pants first, then crawl higher. His screaming intensifies, becoming something inhuman. I've heard men die before, heard them beg and plead, but this—this is something else. This is thirteen years of living after what he'd done suddenly coming to an end.
The faint scent of burning flesh starts to fill the air, the gasoline fumes disappearing. Black smoke billows upward, the sacrifice's offering to the heavens.
I don't look at the man anymore. I watch my bride.
"Look at him," I say, not bothering to raise my voice over the screams.
She remains steady. Her breathing doesn't quicken; her chest rises and falls in the same rhythm it has since we arrived. The breeze stirs loose strands of her hair, but she doesn't move to brush them away. She simply stands, watching.
She doesn't move. Not even when the screams reach their peak and begin to gurgle as the flames reach his throat.
Something shifts in me. A recalculation.
Even more than the wedding, this isn't the reaction I expected. The quiet, submissive bride I was promised is nowhere to be found. Instead, I've been given something else entirely.
I step closer to her, studying her profile as it's illuminated by the dancing flames. "Is this how you pictured it?" I ask, genuinely curious.
She doesn't answer immediately. The flames grow higher, the screams weaker. Finally, she speaks, her voice soft but steady.
"You think this was something for me."
It's not a question.
"Wasn't it?" I reply.
Katerina turns to me, and for the first time since I met her, I see something real in her eyes.
"Do you think this changes anything?"
Her words hit me like a slap as I see the flames dancing in the reflection of her eyes.
"What did you say?" I ask, needing to hear it again.
"This," she says, gesturing toward the still-burning corpse. "You think this makes you powerful? It doesn't. It just makes you predictable."
I feel my jaw clench. The muscles in my neck tighten. No one speaks to me this way. No one.
"Predictable," I repeat.
The fire crackles loudly as it consumes what's left of the man tied to the post. The screaming has stopped. All that remains are the sounds of flames eating wood and flesh.
"Yes," she says simply. "Predictable. Like every other man who thinks violence equals control."
I step closer to her, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from her body. Or maybe it's from the fire. I can't tell anymore.
"Let me tell you something about control, wife." I say the last word like a curse. "You think you understand what's happening here. You don't."
She doesn't back away. Doesn't recoil when I tower over her.
"I understand perfectly," she says. "You wanted to show me what you're capable of. What you'll do to anyone who crosses you." Her eyes flick to the burning body. "Including me."
I look at her with a stern face. "And yet you're not afraid."
"No."
"Why not?"
She shrugs, a delicate lift of one shoulder. "You can only die once."
Something twists inside me at her words. I'm learning she's a woman who watches a man burn without blinking.
I take a step back, reassessing.
"Your uncle said you might be a little difficult," I say. "He didn't mention you were suicidal."
"I'm not suicidal," she replies. "I'm just not afraid of anything. Or of you."
I laugh. "Well, maybe you should be."
"Why?" she asks. "What more can you do to me that hasn't already been done? My family is dead. I've been traded like cattle to forge an alliance. And now I'm watching a stranger burn while wearing a wedding dress I hate."
"You think he's a stranger?" I ask, nodding toward the burning post.
"Isn't he?"
"He's someone who took part in killing your family."
There’s a pause and then she looks at me, her face showing anger with a hint of disgust. “I'm going back to the car."
What? No tears? No gratitude?
"A woman without a soul isn't much of a wife, Katerina."
She doesn't answer. She just keeps walking.
But I notice it. Her posture is different. She's stiffer. Her shoulders more square. More rigid.
"You should thank me, you know," I say as we approach the car.
She pauses but doesn't turn around. "For what?"
I walk up behind her and lean into her ear, my lips close to her skin. "For trying to make you feel something."