Chapter 15 Katerina
KATERINA
When we arrive home, Ares and I walk up to our room. As we enter and I go to head into the walk-in to change, Ares catches my wrist, pulling me back to him.
"I can't get it out of my head. Why did you really defend me tonight?" he asks, his eyes searching mine.
I shrug. "It seemed like the right thing to do. He was being disrespectful."
"To me," Ares points out. "Not to you."
"Well, I am your wife, aren't I?" I say, the words slipping out before I can think better of them.
Something flashes in Ares's eyes—triumph mixed with something darker. "Yes," he says, his grip on my wrist softening as his thumb starts to rub my skin. "You are, but I didn't know if you viewed yourself as my wife."
He steps closer, and I find myself backed against the wall, Ares's large frame caging me in. He doesn't touch me except for his hand around my wrist, but I feel him everywhere—his heat, his scent, his presence overwhelming my senses.
"Katerina," he says, my name like a prayer on his lips. "I don't know what you're doing to me."
I hold still, unable to form words with him so close.
"You make me feel like," he says, his free hand coming up to brush a strand of hair from my face.
"Like what?" I whisper.
"Like this," he says, and then his mouth is on mine.
This kiss is nothing like our fake wedding kiss. This is hunger and need and something—and it's not just coming from him. His hand releases my wrist to cup my face, and I find myself reaching for him, my fingers digging into his shoulders.
When we break apart, we're both breathing hard. Ares rests his forehead against mine, his eyes closed.
"Tell me to stop," he says, his voice rough. "Tell me, and I will."
I don't dare. We start kissing again, and soon his hands are all over me.
He's close, too close.
"I can't," I whisper, pulling back slightly. "Ares, I—"
His eyes darken with concern. "What is it?"
The words catch in my throat. His mouth is still close enough that I feel his breath against my lips, his hand warm on the small of my back.
"I've never—" I swallow hard, embarrassment and hesitation washing over me. "I've never been with anyone before."
Ares goes completely still, his eyes widening slightly as he processes my words. "You're a virgin?"
I nod, unable to meet his gaze. "My uncle kept me hidden away after the fire. Said I needed to be protected. Which just meant isolated."
Ares lifts my chin with his finger, forcing me to look at him. "Katerina," he says, his voice dropping to a gentle tone I've never heard from him before. "That changes nothing for me. Except—" his thumb traces my lower lip "—I'll be gentle with you. When you're ready."
"I don't need gentle," I say automatically, defensively.
He smiles. "Yes, you do. Just this once."
His mouth claims mine again, and my body surrenders to it. His kiss deepens, and I match him, craving all this just as much as him. His hand slides up my side, and I sigh into his mouth, my body awakening under his touch.
Then his fingers creep toward my right side, and I jerk away, pushing against his chest.
"Don't," I say sharply out of habit.
Ares steps back, his brow furrowed. "Your right side," he says, studying me with those piercing eyes. "Why do you flinch? Why do you never let me touch it?"
I turn away, smoothing down my dress with trembling hands. "It's nothing."
"Really, it's not nothing?" he asks and moves toward me again but doesn't touch me. "Every time I touch you there, you pull away. You sleep on your left side. You shield that part of your body like it's an open wound."
"Can we just—" I gesture vaguely, desperate to return to the heat of moments ago rather than this conversation. "Can we just forget it?"
"No." His voice is firm but not unkind. "We can't."
I step toward the closet, but Ares is faster. He places himself between me and my escape, and suddenly his hands are on me, pinning me gently in place.
"I'm your husband," he says, his voice low. "Tell me."
"Let me go," I say, but there's no real fight in my voice.
"Tell me," he repeats, his grip loosening but not releasing. "What are you hiding from me?"
I stare up at him, at the man who tracked down my family's killer for me, who puts wool blankets in the cars because he noticed I get cold, who watches me sleep because he can't rest until he knows everyone he cares for is safe.
"I'm scared," I admit finally, my voice sounding a little weak.
His expression softens. "Don't be. Never with me."
I shake my head. "You say that now. But you'll never look at me like you are right now again."
"That's crazy," he says firmly. "Nothing could change how I see you."
"You don't understand." I twist free and step to my left. "You'll either look away or look with pity. I don't want either from you."
He stands perfectly still, watching me with those dark eyes. "Try me."
I hold his gaze for a long moment, deciding his sincerity. Then I sigh, my shoulders slumping in defeat. I couldn't hide this forever.
With shaking hands, I reach for the side zipper of my dress and pull it down. The fabric loosens around me, and I turn slightly, lifting the right side.
Then he sees it—the scar that stretches across my right side, from just below my waist, up along my ribs, stopping midway. It's jagged, burned, a reminder of the fire that nearly took my life. The skin is rough and discolored, completely different from the smooth olive skin of the rest of my body.
I keep my face stone-like, unreadable, as I wait for his reaction. For the pity to flood his eyes, or worse, the disgust.
But Ares doesn't flinch. He doesn't look away. His eyes move over the scar with the same intensity he gives everything. Then, slowly, he steps forward.
"May I?" he asks, his hand hovering near but not touching.
I nod once, my heart thundering in my chest.
His fingertips brush the scar so lightly it's almost not a touch at all. I shake slightly, not from pain but from the strange intimacy of it. No one has ever touched it before. Not like this.
"From the fire?" he asks quietly.
"Yes," I whisper. "The ceiling collapsed. A burning beam. I don't even remember being rescued."
His eyes lift to mine. "This is why you protect this side."
I nod again, unable to speak around the knot in my throat.
His hand flattens against the scar, his palm warm against the damaged tissue.
"You survived," he says, and there's something like respect in his voice. "You fought through fire and came out the other side. Do you really think this would make me think less of you?"
I swallow hard. "Everyone else does."
"I'm not everyone else," he says simply.
And then he does something I never expected. Something I've never imagined anyone doing.
He lowers himself to one knee before me and presses his lips to the lowest part of the scar, just above my hip. The touch is pure devotion, not sexual. When he looks up at me, his eyes are full with an intensity that steals my breath.
"This," he says, his fingers tracing the length of the scar, "doesn't make you weak, Katerina. This makes you stronger than anyone in this house. Never hide it from me again."
My vision goes blurry instantly, and I blink furiously to stop myself from crying. "You don't find it ugly?"
Ares rises, towering over me again. "Nothing about you could ever be ugly to me. You're my wife, remember?"
His hands frame my face, and his kiss is different this time—deeper, consuming. I feel something inside me crack open, something I've kept locked away for years. My hands slide around his neck, pulling him closer as his arms encircle me, careful but firm against my back.
I feel electricity course through me. I'm turned on, hot, and wanting this man more than I can comprehend.
When we break apart, I'm breathless, dizzy with desire for him. But there's something I need to say first.
"Ares," I whisper against his lips. "Thank you."
He smiles. "For what?"
"For seeing past my scar."
Ares wraps his arms around me, pulling me against his body. I melt into him, my body feeling loose, as I'm letting my guard down completely for the first time since I can remember. As our bodies press together, I feel the hard ridge of his arousal against my stomach.
Not only does this man not care about my scar, he made me feel special because of it. Beautiful, even. The revelation sends a rush of heat through my body, pooling low in my belly.
And he's not forcing sex on me, even though I can feel how much he wants it. Granted, my virgin revelation and scar reveal may have killed the mood, but still. He's giving me space, giving me a choice.
I've spent my life with men making decisions for me. My uncle keeping me hidden away. Now my husband, chosen for me without my consent. But here, in this moment, Ares is allowing me to decide.
I slide my hands down his chest, feeling the hard planes of muscle beneath his shirt. His breathing quickens, and I watch his face as I lower my hand further, brushing against the bulge in his pants. His eyes darken.
"Katerina," he warns, his voice strained.
I apply more pressure, rubbing my palm against his length through the fabric. Ares drops his head back, a deep groan escaping his throat. The sound sends a thrill through me—I did that. I caused that reaction.
While I haven't had sex, I'm not a virgin to everything. My uncle may have kept me isolated, but he couldn't control what I read, what I watched, or my time away at school.
I sink to my knees before him, my eyes never leaving his. His gaze is molten, burning with desire as he watches me. I reach for his belt, my fingers trembling slightly.
"You don't have to," he says, his voice rough.
"I want to," I reply. "I want to taste you."
A muscle in his jaw twitches as I unbuckle his belt, the metal clinking softly in the silence of our room. I unbutton his pants and slowly lower the zipper.
"Fuck," he breathes as I reach into his boxer briefs, wrapping my hand around him.