Chapter 19
nineteen
-Ares-
Something got seriously fucked up from the way I was imagining this evening.
I wanted answers, but now all I want is to be inside her.
To feel her body against mine, her ragged breath, her pulse so close to my own.
The pull of our bodies is too undeniable, like a magnet drawing me in, making it impossible to stay away.
I push the table with my foot, not giving a fuck when the glasses clink against the wood, shattering into pieces. I’ll take care of it in the morning. Now there’s something else I need to take care of.
My lips go to meet hers, my hands already at her back, unclasping her bra.
She takes a second to register what I’m doing, caught off guard by my unexpected move, but she recovers quickly enough.
Her lips respond to mine, her own hands rushing to unbutton my shirt, fingers fumbling on the buttons much more clumsily than she really is.
I was sure she was going for my zipper next, instead she slipped from my arms, crawling on the couch to get to the light switch that’s on the pillar behind her.
I follow her on instinct, like the predator inside is fully on guard, lifting myself on the couch until she’s trapped beneath me.
Her hand wiggles in the air as she kills the light.
I don’t even know how she spotted that light switch there.
“My guards won’t come here. They know better than to disturb me,” I whisper, flicking the lights back on.
“I want to see you,” I lift her shirt, impatient to see my mark on her—so fucking beautiful.
But before I get the proper chance to fully explore her body, she slips from my arms again, turning off the light.
And maybe I would’ve let her have it her way—rather than blow what could be a spectacular fuck—but as she stretches to get to the switch, I spot a dozen silvery marks slashing across her rib cage.
Scars.
Not random but meticulously placed there.
I flip the outdoor light back on, my blood boiling—not with passion, but bubbling with unconstrained rage. And before I get to lift her T-shirt, she flips the switch again, plunging us into darkness.
“Don’t play with me, Brynn. What the fuck is this?” I snarl, slamming the switch and yanking her back down on the couch, so that she can’t reach it anymore.
This time, I do raise her shirt—with or without her will. I need to see what the fuck that is on her body.
“Cut it out, Ares. I’m not in the mood.” She tries to push me away, like she suddenly had a change of mind and ripped sex off the table.
Her words barely register as the image of the scars is etched into my mind, even as she moves on the couch, trying to keep me from seeing her body.
I turn her around, even though she fights me, trying her best to stay out of reach.
Now I know she’s got something to hide. So that leaves me with no choice but to rip the shirt off her.
I don’t care if she wants it or not, I’m going to see how many more scars she’s hiding.
Because I know I won’t find peace until I've mapped every inch of her.
She tries to push me away again. Not that I care. I’m driven only by the sound of ripping fabric, my hands pinning her in place as my eyes scan her body.
What the fuck is this?
I can barely control my breath as I take in a couple of dozen scars across her ribs down to her belly. And as she thrashes against me, I think I spot a few on her back.
I know I saw a few scars the night I marked her, but I figured they were just random ones from different fights or even from training.
If she’s got the balls to go after a mafia family alone, then she’s got enough fighting skills to back her up.
That kind of power takes great effort. And last time I took her to bed, she fought me hard enough to convince me that she might hold her own in a real fight against most of my men.
But now that I look at the scars, none of them are longer than an inch. All so similar, like they were carved with the same weapon.
Not meant to kill.
Meant to torture.
“Who did this to you?” My voice comes out rough, words almost grating with wrath, like I can barely hold it together—like the voice doesn’t belong to me anymore but to something darker crawling out from inside.
The world around me becomes a haze, a dark veil sliding over my mind, heightening every sense. But mostly, my lust to kill. I want to rip the bastard responsible for those scars to pieces, then feed them to him. But first, I need to know who the hell is responsible for this.
And Brynn isn’t answering.
She’s still trying to cover herself. Her fists clenched around what’s left of the fabric, hiding the scars I’ve already seen.
It’s too late. I can’t unsee it now.
I can’t unfeel the rumble in my chest. It’s too much, too intense, like something is tearing me apart from the inside out. “I asked you who did this to you?” I growl, this time, the air trembling around my words.
Instead of answering me, she bolts for the light again—like killing it will make me forget what I just saw or stop my chest from fucking exploding.
I won’t have silence instead of an answer. Not this time, even though that’s all she’s willing to give me right now.
I turn the light back on, pinning her to the couch so she can’t reach the switch again. Her expression is something I’ve never seen on her before. The fearless woman I swore to tame is now fragile. Vulnerable in front of me. Like something delicate on the verge of shattering.
And I don’t want to break her. Not like this.
But if I let her slip away, if I give her enough time to put her mask back on, I’ll never find out what happened to her.
She tries to fight me off, to escape my grip and find refuge in the dark. One of her fists flies straight at my face, but the hit barely feels like a bee sting.
I’m almost immune to pain. I still feel it at the same intensity a normal person would. I've just grown used to it. Like it’s just another part of life—an external stimulus that reminds me of my role here. Keeping the balance. And right now, my whole balance is turned upside down, fucking ruined.
Another fist comes at me, but I grab her wrist and slam it against the couch, holding it there despite her curses and screams. She tries to use her legs to get me off her this time, but I pin them too, until she’s completely trapped beneath me.
Her body is so small compared to mine. So feisty, yet so fragile.
I’m so tempted to play with her. But I can’t. Not now. Now I need answers. I need something to fill the void.
“Get the fuck off me.” She tries to get up, but I keep her down without breaking a sweat. My patience is wearing thin, and I warned her about cursing countless times, but I know she’s only fighting me because it’s much easier than facing reality.
I won’t let go until she tells me where those scars came from.
Truth is, I don’t think I’ll ever let her go.
“Start talking, Brynn. Who the fuck did this to you?” I growl, my voice so menacing that it would rattle even the greatest warrior. But she won’t give in. She keeps cursing, trying to fight me off her for long minutes, until she finally wears herself out.
I can feel her strength fading, but she’s still not giving up. She refuses to stop fighting me. Refuses to let me in on whatever happened to her.
Until her resistance fades... and her fire turns to tears. She’s no longer fighting me. A slight tremble replaces the twitching in her arms to hit me, and the strong, powerful woman I knew suddenly crumbles into a weak shadow of her.
“Please get off me,” she begs in a much more weakened voice that matches the emptiness reflected in her onyx eyes.
“Brynn, whoever did this… whatever happened here,” I whisper, tracing one of her scars with the back of my fingers, “they’ll pay.”
I want to see fire—hell, even hate—as she looks back at me. Instead, all I see is fear from a woman I would’ve bet was fearless just a moment ago.
What kind of monster did she face?
“Please,” she begs again, her voice growing even weaker, fading along with her resistance.
I loosen my grip and get off her, but she doesn’t try to get up, like she’s too spent to move, too broken to function. And I can’t stop staring at the dozens of scars running from her torso down to her legs.
All planned.
All premeditated.
“What happened?” I ask, barely keeping my restraint. I need to know who hurt her like this. Because that’s the only way I can fix it.
She doesn’t answer. Just curls into herself, her mind somewhere far away.
And I won’t let her go there. “There’s no detour, no other way out.
I won’t let you leave until you tell me what happened.
” I grab a blanket from the chair and lay it over her.
I know she doesn’t want me to stare. And to be honest, I don’t think I can keep looking at her body right now without going fucking feral.
It takes everything in me to get up and leave her alone on the couch, even just for a couple of seconds to pour us two glasses of whiskey.
Still, she needs the distance. If I keep pressing her for a confession, she’ll do exactly the opposite.
And I have no idea how I’ll react to that.
I hand her the glass, then take a few steps toward the pool, stopping right at the edge. My back to her as I stare into the water, waiting for the moment she’ll find the courage to speak.
“Brynn,” I trail off, after long minutes of silence. My glass is already empty. So is my patience.
And I guess she feels it, because this time, she does answer. “Why do you care?” Her voice is sharper than I can usually brush off.
She’s trying to challenge me.
Like I shouldn’t care.
Like I’m stepping out of my boundaries.
Like she’s a nobody to me.
Still, my actions prove she’s much more than just a one-night stand. And at this point, I don’t care. Don’t care that she sees through me. Don’t care if she knows I feel something for her more than just lust. “I told you. YOU ARE MINE!”
She probably thinks it’s some kind of possessive, territorial instinct. I wish it was that simple. But it’s not. It’s so much more complicated than that.
I also know she probably doesn’t trust me.
Why would she? I forced my way into her world and left her no choice but to play by my rules.
“I’m not going to judge. I just need to know how you got those scars.
Tell me, and I’ll never bring it up again—if that’s what you want.
” I try to keep my mouth shut about the horrors I’d unleash on the one responsible.
She doesn’t need to hear that right now.
Doesn’t need my anger—though I suspect I’m doing a shitty job hiding it.
“Would you pour me another?” she murmurs, sounding almost defeated. Like she knows there’s no other way around this.
I comply, pouring her another whiskey and slipping it between her fragile fingers.
She takes a moment before downing the entire glass in one swallow, like she’s trying to build enough courage to speak.
I reach for the empty glass, and as soon as I take it from her, my fingers slip between hers.
Not something I’ve done recently. Not something I’ve done for centuries, maybe even millennia.
And from the look in her eyes, the gesture is as unfamiliar to her as it is to me.
For a second, I even think she’s going to pull away, but then her fingers tighten around mine, and as much as she hates the closeness, she needs it.
“I’ve never talked about this,” she whispers, so quietly I almost miss it.
“And I’ve never been a good listener. So, I guess this is something new for both of us.” My fingers stay firm against hers, encouraging her to go on as I find my spot on the couch, sitting next to her while she’s lying down.
She takes a few more minutes, lost for words, trying to figure out where to begin.
“It’s okay. I’m here for as long as you need me,” I reassure her, ready to stay here until morning, or maybe even until the end of time.
I still have no clue what the hell she’s done to me, but what I do know is that I don’t want it to end.
Anger. Lust. Maybe even a kind of joy I’ve never felt before, all conjoined into something too intense to ignore.
Something so powerful that it risks leaving me hollow without her.
Just when I’m about to ask her if she wants another glass, she shifts, clutching one of the couch’s pillows. I can’t help my heart from breaking, just a little, because I know this isn’t in her nature.
In a way, I’m even afraid of what she might say, of what she might trigger in me.
But I must go through with this. We both do.
Because if she’s telling the truth, and she’s never told anyone, then she never faced it.
And she’ll never get past it. It’ll always stay buried, like a dormant nightmare.
A residue in the back of her mind that won’t give her peace.