Chapter 13
Kayla
I wake up feeling like I’m trapped in a furnace, a warm body pressed against mine.
I open my eyes and know I am in Ares’s room again.
This is the second time I have woken up in here, but at least this time I was conscious when I arrived.
Last night, he let me shower off the paint, and when I came out, he was sitting on the bed with a first aid kit open beside him.
He cleaned the wound on my ribs as I yawned, then after he was done, he pulled back the covers and told me to get some sleep.
He said that once I woke up, he would take me home.
Though I don’t know when he got in beside me.
I lie still and stare at the arm across my waist, studying his features as he sleeps, the softness of his face while he doesn’t know he is being watched.
It’s like seeing a whole different side to him.
One he doesn’t show people. For whatever reason, this man is guarded and puts on a show for those around him.
Shifting slightly, I turn onto my back, and his arm moves to my stomach.
I look over and see he is closer than I expected.
His face is relaxed, the sharp edges have melted, and his dirty-blonde hair is pushed back from his face, making him look younger.
I run my eyes from the line of his jaw to his broad shoulders and down to the sheet that sits low across his stomach, then back up to his face, and that’s when I notice a faint scar along his jaw.
It’s barely visible and runs from his ear, down his jawline, and stops before his chin.
I can’t help wondering how he got it, and I unconsciously reach out and touch it.
The tips of my fingers run along his skin, and Ares’s eyes fly open.
I pause, neither of us moving a muscle for a long moment.
Awareness buzzes through every part of my body that’s touching him, coalescing where his hand is now on my stomach beneath my shirt.
I don’t know who breaks the spell first, but before I can blink, his mouth is on mine, and I’m wrapping my hand around the back of his neck.
I pull him closer, and his body shifts over mine.
Ares kisses me like it’s the first time he has ever kissed a woman. One of his hands slides up my ribs and stops just below the dressing.
“It doesn’t hurt,” I whisper against his lips, and he slides his hand over it.
He pulls my shirt over my head and gazes down at me.
I can’t read him, so I reach up and pull him down to me before he can overthink things too much.
He doesn’t rush, moving his hands over me like he wants to take his time.
His mouth grazes my throat, then he kisses down to my collarbone, along the curve of my shoulder, and every inch of my body.
Ares lifts slightly to pull down his sweats, then settles back between my legs.
He eases himself inside me, and I stutter out a breath at the sheer size of him—Vero was not exaggerating.
“Ares,” I gasp out, overwhelmed by the feeling of utter fullness.
His every move is controlled, his focus entirely on me.
It makes it hard to think straight as he reads every noise and the way my body responds to him and adjusts himself just right.
Now I also understand something Vero told me about everyone on the island going to him; it’s because he makes you feel like you are the only thing that exists. He has learned you completely.
I dig my fingers into his back and stop myself from thinking about what any of this means.
When I come apart, it’s slow and yet it hits everywhere at the same time.
There’s no need for theatrics or yelling out his name.
I whisper it reverently against his neck, just below his ear, and he shivers, then buries his face in my neck as he comes.
Several heartbeats later, Ares lifts his head and looks at me, then right before my eyes, all his walls go back up. He moves off me and sits on the edge of the bed with his back to me, and I give him a moment.
“That was . . .” he starts and then stops. “An inevitable conclusion to the circumstances.” I stare at the back of his head. “We have been in close proximity, and a physical response was statistically likely.”
I snort. “Statistically likely,” I repeat.
He turns to look at me over his shoulder, and his expression is neutral and gives me absolutely nothing. “It doesn’t have to be complicated.”
I sit up and reach for the shirt at the end of the bed, pulling it on. “It isn’t complicated,” I reply. “But since you just told me sleeping with me was a result of proximity and statistics, it’s not complicated, but it’s now weird.”
“I didn’t mean . . .”
“It’s fine, Ares.” I slide out of bed and find my camo pants from the night before folded on the bedside table. “You don’t have to explain yourself. I’m a big girl.”
He watches me but says nothing more as I pick up my boots. I take one last look at him sitting on the edge of his bed, watching me with those unreadable eyes.
“Thank you for patching me up,” I say and leave before he responds. I have had some weird one-night stands and awkward escape moments, but this probably takes the cake.
The hallway is empty when I step out of Ares’s room, which I am grateful for, until the door directly opposite opens and Clay steps out.
We both stop.
Clay looks at me, then at the door, then back to me.
“Don’t,” I warn him.
“I haven’t even said anything.”
“You were about to—I can see it written all over your face.”
The corner of his mouth moves, and I pin him with a glare.
“Ares’s shirt looks better on you than it does on him.”
I shake my head, and he falls into step beside me, his hands in the pockets of his sweats.
“Have you eaten?” he asks.
I look at him sideways. “Are you asking me to breakfast?”
He glances over at me. “I’m just asking if you’re hungry.”
“I haven’t eaten, so yes.”
“Then let’s go,” he says. It’s the same way he always says things, like he’s already decided and asking me was a formality.
Under normal circumstances, I would tell him to bite me, but I am hungry and don’t want to face Vero right now. He would know something is up. “Fine, but I am ordering whatever I want.”
“Didn’t say you couldn’t.”
I follow him out to his truck, and he drives us to a little diner about twenty minutes away from the island, which is small and mostly empty.
He takes us to a booth by one of the windows, and the lady behind the counter brings over coffee straight away while looking at me curiously.
She takes our order before going back over to the counter.
I wrap my hands around my mug, and across the table Clay is looking at his phone, scrolling and hyper-focused. I leave him to it for a few minutes, then curiosity finally gets the better of me, and when I peek at what he is reading, I glimpse Kyle’s address, schedule, and Nixie’s name in the notes.
He angles the screen away when he notices me looking, but it’s too late. He places the phone face down next to his cup of coffee. “I can’t let him get away with hurting my sister.”
I stare at him across the table. “So what are you going to do?”
He regards me for a long moment, but before he answers, the server brings out our food and places it down in front of us.
“A gentle warning,” he says once she is gone.
And that is how I know we are not just driving past Kyle’s apartment on the way home.
While I should tell him to take me to my place first—I should absolutely not get involved in whatever Clay considers a gentle warning to a man who cheated on me, lied about me to his new girlfriend, and then sent her to harass me at work—I only have to think about it for a second. “I’m coming with you.”
“No.”
“Clay, I’m coming,” I repeat more forcefully. “And before you tell me to stay in the car, if you leave me there, I will just get out.”
He scowls at me for a long moment, then puts his fork down.
“You stay behind me,” he says. “And you let me handle it.”
“Sure.”
“Kayla—”
“I heard you.”
Once we finish breakfast, he drives toward Kyle’s. He is quiet the entire time, focused on the road with both hands on the wheel. The building is as nice as I remember it. Clay parks across the street and glances toward me before we get out. “Just remember he deserves this.”
Kyle comes out of the building right as we reach the entrance, his gym bag tossed over his shoulder, and he stops dead when he sees me. His eyes move to Clay, and he does the thing men do when they size someone up. “Kayla,” he says carefully. “What is this?”
“This is a friendly conversation,” Clay says, and his voice is anything but friendly. “About Jess.”
Kyle’s expression shifts. “I don’t know what she said, but . . .”
“You told her Kayla was stalking you,” Clay says.
“That she cheated and was harassing you.” He tilts his head slightly.
“Funny thing is, Kayla has every message you sent her and every missed call. Jess scrolled through all of it. What I would like to know is which part of the story you want to stand behind.”
Kyle says nothing as his gym bag slides off his shoulder.
“That’s what I thought.” Clay takes one step closer, and his voice drops further. “You are going to call off whatever you have going on with Jess. Today.” He lets that sit for a second. “And you don’t go near Kayla again. Not the bar. Or her street. Not anywhere she might be.”
Kyle looks at me, the way he has always done when he wants me to feel sorry for him after he lies. “Is this your new boyfriend?”
I open my mouth, but Clay speaks first.
“She isn’t my girlfriend.” One more step and Kyle is now pressed against the wall of his building with nowhere to go.
Clay’s voice is almost pleasant. “But she’s mine.
And you don’t want to know what I do to men who look at what’s mine the way you are looking at her right now—like she owes you something.
She doesn’t owe you a single fucking thing. ”
Kyle laughs, though it’s filled with nerves. “That doesn’t even make . . .”
Clay hits him once, and Kyle folds, going down beside his gym bag.
Clay crouches to his level. “Jess. Kayla. Both of them. You are done. Nod if you understand me.”
Kyle nods, and Clay stands. Then he straightens his jacket and turns back to me like nothing happened. He jerks his head toward the car and starts walking.
I fall into step beside him. “She isn’t my girlfriend, she’s mine,” I say back to him in a voice that sounds like him. “You know that makes no sense.”
“Makes sense to me.”
“You can’t claim someone and then tell someone they aren’t your girlfriend in the same breath.”
“I just did.”
He unlocks the car, and I stand there staring at it for a second, wondering how we went from tearing at each other’s throats to whatever this is, but then I get in.
Clay starts the engine and pulls onto the street, and we drive in silence for a few minutes before he speaks.
“What time does your shift end tonight?”
“Why?”
He doesn’t answer, simply drives with one hand on the wheel and his elbow on the windowsill.
I turn back to face the road and realize these are the most words Clay has ever said to me that weren’t intended to make me feel unwelcome. I have absolutely no idea what to do with that.