Chapter 25 #2
Ares stands beside me now, holding out a tiny silver spoon with a small mound of blush on it. His expression is sympathetic, understanding.
“Just a little might help,” he says softly. “Take the edge off.”
The sound of bodies impacting on the arena floor, amplified by the speaker in the viewing box, makes me flinch. I can’t watch this. Every nerve in my body feels stretched to a breaking point as Logan and Prince Viktor slam into each other with brutal force.
Another impact, another roar from the crowd. I squeeze my eyes shut, but that only makes the sounds more vivid.
“I can’t do this,” I whisper, mostly to myself.
I reach for a glass of lemonade from the bar, the cool condensation a welcome distraction against my overheated skin. The tiny silver spoon Ares offered still rests in his outstretched palm, the mound of pink powder glittering under the viewing box lights.
Panic is rising. I feel it like a drumbeat in my chest, in the blood rushing to my head.
Before I can second-guess myself, I tip the spoon into my lemonade, watching the blush dissolve into swirls of pink. Not enough. I reach for the bowl and add another small spoonful directly to my drink.
Ares chuckles ruefully, watching me stir the concoction with my finger. “Taking the scenic route to oblivion, I see.”
He helps himself to a generous pinch of blush, tossing it directly onto his tongue before chasing it with bourbon. His eyes find mine over the rim of his glass, something like understanding passing between us.
“Want some?” Ares asks Poe, gesturing toward the bowl.
Poe shakes his head, his attention never leaving the arena below. “Someone needs to stay clearheaded.”
The crowd roars again, and I take a long swallow of my lemonade. The blush adds a strange sweetness that masks the drug beneath. My hand trembles slightly as I set the glass down, already feeling a pleasant warmth spreading from my stomach outward.
A sudden crash from the arena draws my attention back to the window. Logan has Viktor pinned against the barrier wall, blood streaming from both their faces. The Western prince breaks free with a savage elbow to Logan’s ribs that makes me gasp.
“He’s fine,” Ares assures me, his voice already taking on that distant quality that tells me the blush is hitting him too. “Logan’s taken worse.”
I take another long drink, draining half the glass. The edges of the room begin to soften, the roar of the crowd becoming a pleasant buzz rather than an assault on my senses. The panic that had been clawing at my throat recedes, replaced by a dreamy detachment.
“Better?” Ares asks, watching me with dilated pupils.
I nod, a smile spreading across my face without my permission. “Much.”
The sounds from the arena continue, but they feel distant now, unimportant. I settle back into my plush seat, Logan’s fight suddenly seeming like something happening in another world entirely. Through the pleasant haze of blush, I can watch without feeling, observe without caring.
Ares settles into the first row of box seats, and I don’t resist the urge to sink down beside him. The blush loosens my limbs, making my body crave the solid warmth of his presence. My head feels pleasantly fuzzy, thoughts drifting like clouds across a summer sky.
Poe remains standing at the window, rigid and watchful. His voice floats toward us, describing the fight below in a deliberately flat tone.
“Viktor has Logan in a corner—he’s using his weight advantage. Logan’s favoring his left side. That last hit connected hard.”
I nod vaguely, processing his words through the pleasant haze of blush. The sounds from the arena—grunts of pain, the thud of flesh hitting flesh, the crowd’s bloodthirsty roars—seem to come from somewhere far away.
“Logan just barely escaped a neck lock,” Poe continues, his voice flat. “That could have ended it. He needs to be more careful.”
My unwanted mate might be minutes from getting himself killed.
Probably taking me with him.
Without really thinking about it, I shift closer to Ares, then slide onto his lap. His arms automatically circle my waist, steadying me. The solid heat of him feels right, anchoring me when everything else seems to be floating.
“Comfortable?” Ares murmurs, his breath hot against my ear.
I nod, leaning back against his chest. Through our thin clothing, I can feel every plane of muscle, every steady beat of his heart. The bond with Logan pulses distantly, muted by the blush, but I’m aware of its presence like a faint thread connecting me to the battle below.
My thoughts drift to Cillian. Where is he watching from?
What is he feeling through his bond with Logan?
I reach for our connection, trying to sense him through the pleasant fog in my mind, but I hit a wall.
He’s shut himself off from me completely, leaving only the faintest traces of his emotions—cold determination… and fear.
Is that how he would face death? With that same stoic resolve? I wonder if that’s what I’ll feel from him if Logan falls, just before I follow them both into oblivion.
I realize I’m absently stroking Ares’s arm, my fingers tracing the ridges of muscle beneath his sleeve. He tenses slightly, shifting beneath me.
“Maya,” he says, voice strained. “Maybe you should?—“
I turn to look at his face. His pupils are huge, nearly swallowing the green of his irises. The blush has affected him too, but differently. There’s something primal in his gaze now, something hungry.
I watch, fascinated, as he stares at the arena below. His breathing changes with each blow Logan lands or receives, his body responding to the violence like it’s a physical touch. This is more than just concern for a packmate—this is Alpha bloodlust, pure and undiluted.
He’s beautiful like this. Dangerous. Raw.
I shift in his lap, and that’s when I feel it—the hard length of him pressing against me through our clothes. My body responds instantly, a rush of heat flooding between my thighs.
I should be embarrassed. I should move away.
Instead, I grind down against him, a slow, deliberate movement that draws a sharp inhale from his lips.
The blush sings in my blood, turning every sensation into pleasure. The violence below, the thick scent of Ares’s arousal, the distant thread of fear through my bond with Logan—it all swirls together into a heady cocktail that makes me feel both powerful and desperate.
“Maya,” Ares warns, his hands tightening on my hips. But he doesn’t stop me as I rock against him again, seeking friction.
In the distance, I hear Poe’s voice continuing his clinical commentary on the fight, seemingly oblivious to what’s happening behind him. Or perhaps he’s deliberately ignoring it.
I don’t care. The blush has stripped away all my inhibitions, leaving only raw need. Logan could be fighting for his life below, and part of me—the part not drowning in pink-tinged pleasure—knows I should care more than I do right now.
If I’m about to die, might as well do it while feeling good.
Because right now, all I can focus on is the delicious pressure building where Ares’s hardness presses against me, and the savage satisfaction of turning this powerful Alpha into my plaything with nothing more than the movement of my hips.
I lift my skirt with one hand, the fabric bunching around my waist as the blush emboldens me beyond reason.
My other hand fumbles with Ares’s pants, finding the button and zipper with clumsy determination.
The pink haze in my mind transforms every movement into something dreamlike yet intensely vivid.
“Maya,” Ares whispers, his voice strained between warning and desire. “Are you sure?”
I don’t answer in words. The blush has stripped away any hesitation, leaving only raw need. In this moment, I want nothing more than to feel him inside me, to lose myself in sensation rather than watch Logan possibly die below.
Ares doesn’t resist as I free him from his pants, his thickness springing into my hand. He’s already fully hard, throbbing against my palm. I position myself over him, my slick-soaked underwear the only barrier between us. With a quick movement, I push the thin fabric aside.
“Fuck,” he groans as I sink down onto him, taking him inch by inch.
The stretch is delicious, almost painful. I gasp as he fills me completely, my body adjusting to his size. His hands grip my hips, guiding my movements as I begin to ride him with slow, deliberate motions.
Through half-lidded eyes, I notice Poe has turned to watch us. His dark gaze flicks between my face and where Ares and I are joined, then back to the arena, as if he can’t decide which spectacle demands more attention.
“Come here,” I breathe, reaching toward him with an outstretched hand while continuing to move on Ares.
Poe shakes his head, his expression pained. “Not like this.”
The rejection stings even through the blush haze, but I’m too lost in pleasure to dwell on it. Ares fills me so completely, hitting places inside that make starbursts explode behind my eyes with each downward thrust.
“Logan’s got the upper hand,” Poe comments casually, his voice oddly detached as he turns back to watch the fight. “Viktor is tiring.”
Ares’s pace quickens beneath me, his powerful hips driving upward to meet my downward thrusts. I feel the telltale swelling at his base—his knot beginning to form. The thought of being tied to him, filled with his release while Logan fights for his life below, sends a forbidden thrill through me.
“He’s got Viktor in a headlock,” Poe continues, as if he’s not standing mere feet from where I’m riding his packmate. “It could be over soon.”
I feel Ares’s knot pressing against me, stretching me as it catches on my entrance with each thrust. His breathing grows ragged, his movements more desperate. I grind down harder, wanting to take all of him, to feel that final connection.
With a groan that sounds almost pained, Ares’s knot locks inside me, tying us together. The sensation triggers my own release, a wave of pleasure so intense that my vision whites out for a moment. My inner walls pulse around him, milking him as he floods me with his release.
“Logan won,” Poe announces dispassionately, just as my orgasm crests. “Viktor is dead.”
A rush of relief courses through me, mingling with the pleasure still rippling through my body. I tell myself it’s just the blush making me care about Logan’s victory, just the drug creating this sense of gratitude that he survived.
But deep down, beneath the haze of chemicals and pleasure, I know it’s more complicated than that. The bond, unwanted as it is, has tied me to him in ways I’m only beginning to understand.
As I collapse against Ares’s chest, his knot still pulsing inside me, I catch Poe’s gaze one more time. There’s no judgment there, only a deep, unreadable sadness that follows me even as I drift in the pink-tinged afterglow.