Chapter 12
twelve
-Brynn-
There are still five days until the party at The Breach, and I’m not going back to Elysium.
Ares would’ve given me a sign if he needed me there, and I don’t want to risk having him throw a tantrum or put his hands on me in front of his employees again.
But I can’t stay locked inside for five days.
I’ve never had a real vacation, and the only time I’ve stayed in for so long was when Elias died.
I’m not mentally prepared to go back there again.
Especially when I’m barely holding on by a thread just to keep from fucking losing it.
Besides, staying away doesn’t really mean staying away—not for me. I need to do something with my time, so I decide to spend the day trying to dig up some information.
There’s a diner across the street from The Breach where Ares’s men occasionally show up to eat.
The food’s pretty decent—if you’re into all-American shit like mac I’ll need an extra boost to deal with Ares.
The club’s already packed by the time I get there. Who the fuck knew this many people could drop a grand just to be here?
Dozens of champagne trays circle the room, the waiters already exhausted by the anxious crowd.
I don’t pay them too much attention, though, because I know where I must be.
I make my way toward Ares’s table. I can barely see him through the mass of people, but the closer I get, the harder my heart beats threatening to explode in my chest. His dark hair is slicked back, its length barely noticeable, blending into the 1920s picture, his square jaw even more prominent in the dim lights, and a smile to die for that threatens to melt my clothes by the end of the night.
He’s wearing a full gangster suit to fit the Gatsby theme—and his personality—classic stylish black pants and a white shirt.
Go figure. But that’s not what grabs me.
It’s the damn suspenders. Because I suddenly realize; suspenders are not outdated or out of fashion.
They are the newest hottest fucking shit.
And that, paired with the sleeve garters that wrap tightly around his muscular arms, hugging his biceps in a grip that suddenly has me in a chokehold, has just officially become my new kink.
I totally get the obsession with Thomas Shelby now.
But seeing Ares like this feels just like unlocking a new level in video games.
Ares 2.0- Unlocked.
I try not to blush, or to make one of those silly faces as I walk toward him.
Something just happened to me in the twenty seconds it took me to break through the crowd and get closer to him.
My breath is hitched. My mind’s a blur, and I can’t help but curse myself for being so weak and falling for an image, not the man.
And suddenly, I want to be weak tonight. I’ve been strong for too long. It’s time to feel something—anything—other than pain. Even if it’s only going to be temporary.
But as I get closer, I have a better view of his table, and suddenly, I spot a hand running up his neck. A woman’s hand.
The fantasy I’ve created shatters instantly.
Fuck, I’m such a fool.
I want to turn back and walk out right now. But I know he’s already seen me. Walking away now would be pure cowardice. It’d only give him satisfaction. And I’m not handing that to him.
I try to keep the smile on my face, because I felt it there, and now I also feel it slipping, even though I’m fighting not to let it. I can’t betray any weakness. Even if I feel I betrayed myself.
What the fuck was I thinking?
I could literally punch myself right now, just to snap back to reality and remind myself why I’m really here.
The image of the woman next to him becomes clearer.
A flawless blonde. She’s absolutely stunning.
Curves in all the right places, a perfect tan, piercing green eyes, and the more I stare, the more I’m convinced her surgeon must be a fucking magician—because she doesn’t look like she’s had any intervention, even if everything on her face is too perfect to be real.
I’m really trying not to be jealous, but the fucking bastard had his fingers inside me less than a week ago. He literally sent me a chopped-off dick just so I wouldn't so much as look at another man.
Fucking hypocrite. I should’ve seen that coming.
The dress I’m wearing doesn’t make sense. Nothing makes sense anymore. And I’m starting to think this is a lesson. He wants to remind me where I belong—with the staff.
And it takes him all of five seconds to confirm it.
“You’re late,” he grunts, leaning over the table to grab his whiskey.
“I wasn’t given a time,” I mutter. He never said one, but I know he’ll give me shit for it anyway, and there’s nothing I can do about it.
“I’ve got something for you to do tonight,” he says, sipping his whiskey. “A lot of people are coming to see me tonight, and I don’t feel like dealing with them. You’ll intercept them and ask them to postpone things for another time.”
“Can’t your men handle that?” I mutter, seeing the blonde arching an eyebrow. I’m not here to play fucking hostess. If he’s going to give me a job, I want a real one.
But clearly, he doesn’t see it that way.
“No, they can’t. They lack the necessary diplomacy.
Besides, getting brushed off by a guard, hits differently than being asked by a…
very attractive woman.” He pauses, looking me over from head to toe, like the fact that he’s having a different woman next to him doesn’t interfere with whatever this is between us.
“I’ll be busy tonight.” He turns to look at the blonde sitting on his left.
“Keep them out of my way,” he says, clipped enough to make me realize this is the end of our discussion.
Ugh, I could fucking strangle him right now.
This cold-hearted, selfish, self-entitled bastard thinks he can play me. Thinks I’m one of his toys; he can just pick up the moment he’s bored with the other one.
I leave without giving him the satisfaction of seeing the anger on my face. Not that I can go too far since I still need to secure the perimeter around him. And I’m not mentally prepared to be dealing with this shit right now.
But he’s right about one thing—in the next few minutes, half a dozen people who want to talk to him show up, like he’s a fucking celebrity. Some of them probably paid the one grand entry fee just to do that. And it’s my job to tell them no.
Most take it better than others, but there are always a few who give me trouble and insist on speaking to him, not expecting that someone in a very tight dress and six-inch heels to kick them in the nuts and drag them out.
That’s just for the ones who were too pushy for their own good, and who couldn’t keep their hands to themselves, thinking that since I work for Ares, I must be at their service too.
I signal one of the guards to haul out my latest victim, and when I turn to look at Ares, his gaze is burning into me, his eyes running over my body like he’s picturing me naked.
But then the woman next to him leans in and whispers something in his ear.
His attention shifts to her instantly, a devilish grin blooming across his face.
Then she jumps to her feet. That damn hand-sewn, bean-white dress molding to every perfect curve, her long golden hair cascading down over her shoulders, in an image so stunning it grabs the attention of everyone around her—men and women alike.
Her hips sway, coaxing Ares to join her, but he doesn’t look interested in dancing. He just watches her, almost untouched by her charms.
And honestly, if someone like her can’t impress him, I don’t stand a chance.
He suddenly gestures for her to lean in, then whispers something I can’t understand.
Whatever it is, it gets her to laugh, her moves growing bolder, and a grimace tightens his jaw.
She moves exactly how she looks: seducing, magnetic, hypnotizing.
Her confidence is almost out of this world.
But she’s fully entitled to own it. So much that I think she just defied Ares, judging by the pissed off look on his face.
I can’t even tell if I’m envious or impressed. I feel a surge of something unfamiliar washing over me. My temples are pulsing, my limbs tremble with nervous energy. And there’s a rising knot in my throat that makes me feel like I might gag. I blame it on the fact that I got played.
This isn’t jealousy. It can’t be. Jealousy comes out of feelings, and I don’t have any for Ares.
It’s just panic, fear that this might jeopardize my mission.
Or so I tell myself.
I can’t believe the number of people who came to see Ares tonight—or the ordeal of having to stand in six-inch heels for almost six hours. My feet are burning, and this night should’ve ended with too much liquor, not with blisters.
I need a break, so I need to ask someone to cover for me for a few minutes. Told them I needed to use the bathroom. In fact, I just need to get the fuck out of there to fucking breathe.
I grab a glass of whiskey on the rocks from the bar.
I need something strong to numb my senses, especially after six fucking hours of watching that blonde giggling and laughing around Ares.
They haven’t kissed or shared any intimate gestures, but she’s wrapped her arms around his neck more than once to whisper something in his ear.
Her whole act is luscious, sensual, screaming that they’re probably going to end up in bed tonight.
I take an even larger sip of whiskey and head toward the toilets.
Not to go in, but just to keep a low profile for a few minutes.
There’s another corridor where they keep the ice boxes.
I go there and perch up on one for a few minutes—whiskey in hand, head tipped back against the wall.
I just need this night to be over. Funny, considering I’ve been waiting five days for it.
I could kill Ares right now for making me feel this vulnerable. It’s like I’m back at square one with only five days left to figure all this shit out.
It has to happen this Halloween. There’s no other way. I have another project I’ve been postponing for too long—something that keeps me up at night until I deal with it.