27. Lourdes
Lourdes
Afew minutes after I’ve gone into Ares’s study, he bursts into the room at a pace that makes me straighten where I’m standing. I hadn’t heard him end his call or leave the terrace. It’s not his usual confident stride. It’s hurried, and there are a few beads of sweat above his upper lip.
“There you are. I didn’t see you right away.” He presses his forehead to mine, his breath rough. “Do you understand what that does to me?”
The words are soft in contrast to the tension of his hold.
“I thought I was safe here,” I say, unsure why his reaction makes my chest feel tight.
“You are.” The answer comes immediately. “I just…” He exhales through his nose, like he’s forcing himself back under control. “I don’t like not knowing where you are.”
That confession grabs me by the throat. He steps back, his hand falling away like it was never there.
“What are you doing in the study?” he asks, his voice steadier now.
“I had Elani set up breakfast for us in here.” I step aside to let him see a table pushed up against the window with white linens and covered dishes.
“Why in here?” he asks. “That’s what all these terraces are for.”
“You like this room,” I reply simply.
He lifts a dish, smiling. “You’re very perceptive.”
“You taught me that.” I sit and pull a napkin across my chest. “Elani outdid herself. I honestly have no idea what she prepared.”
“I’m not here as often as the rest of my family, and I think she likes to impress me.” He finishes lifting the covered dishes.
I take in the classic, but elegant breakfast. There’s a plate with fresh fruit, warm muffins, and what might be fresh-churned butter.
We sit across from each other, sunlight filtering through the tall windows. Ares sits, his long legs crossed to the side of the table, as they are too long to fit under it. For his size, he sits so gracefully.
I bite into a muffin and want to cry. It’s the most rich and buttery baked good I’ve ever tasted. I glance around the study and notice the photo of the woman who caught my attention yesterday. The Alexander conversation hijacked the rest of my questions.
“Who’s that?” I point. “Your mother?”
Ares stills at that question. “No. That’s my Aunt Helena. Father’s sister. You’ll find no photographs of my mother in this house.”
Oh crap. A man with mommy issues. Now the red flags make sense.
I put down my muffin. “After a statement like that, you know I have to ask why.”
Ares studies me and takes a bite of a melon slice before answering me. “She disappeared. We assumed she’d left us. Father had all her photographs destroyed.”
I blow out a breath. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” he answers sharply. “She didn’t disappear. My father killed her. He wanted us to think she left us. So we would hate her as much as he did.”
I put down my butter knife this time. “What did your father say when you found out he…killed her?”
The tone of my voice raises an eyebrow for Ares. I think he forgot for a second I’m not from his world and don’t hear tragedies like this often.
“Alexander killed him. We learned the truth after he was dead.”
And here I thought Alexander was the easy-going one. Good grief. Shaking my head, I say, “I don’t know how to respond to that.”
“My father was an evil man. He got what he deserved.” He meets my eyes. “My Aunt Helena is a kind woman. I’m just not close to her the way Alexander was.”
“Are there plans to arrange marriages for your cousins, Lucia and Lola?” I ask after a sip of my espresso. “Strategic alliances and all that?”
His gaze sharpens at my bluntness. “You agree with that way of my life?”
“It was the way of everyone’s life for centuries.” I try to impress him with my knowledge of history. Particularly, my fascination with the English monarchy.
Ares leans back in his chair. “This is not a time for marriage alliances. Families are consolidating. Strengthening internally.”
The steely tone makes my pulse skip.
“And for yourself?” I ask, straightforwardly.
“It would benefit me to take a wife as I emerge as the sole head of the American Greek Mafia,” he answers casually, not looking at me.
I swallow. “What about a wife for love?”
That gets his attention. Ares studies me. Eyes scanning from my messy bun to my trembling fingers.
“Love isn’t something I factor into decisions,” he says. “It’s unpredictable. And I don’t build anything on unstable ground.”
Something in my throat tightens. Not because of what he said. But how easily he said it.
It saddens me that he actually believes it.