Chapter Nineteen
I don’t normally regret my one-night stands. It’s hard to regret something if you never spare it a second thought. But Leo Baker is starting to haunt me like the motherfucking Ghost of Hookups Past, and I’m wondering what it’s going to take to finally exorcise his ass.
“Still can’t believe you actually fucked him ,” Ares snarls the moment we’re alone in the designated champion’s locker room.
When all he gets from me is a considering hum in the back of my throat, he starts making an angry beeline toward his belongings.
Ares’s gear sits waiting for him on a low-set bench in the middle of the makeshift tiled floor. Instead of starting his warm-down, however, he deliberately positions his back to me, shoulders set and hands hovering over the small duffle.
Perhaps it was meant to antagonize—but all his cold shoulder really does is treat me to an unobstructed view of some disgustingly defined back muscles and their sprawling artwork. The abstracted skull piece is stunning; spliced through with wilted roses, and various broken timepieces and heavy on the black ink. It stretches down his spine in a massive void of yawning jawbones and harsh, aggressive lines, before eventually crumbling back to dust somewhere below his waistline. The haunting imagery continues down both muscled arm sleeves, across his torso, and all the way up to his chiseled jawline—every single inch dark and aggressive, just like him.
As I observe him silently, the only sounds between us are the steady drip from a nearby shower stall, and Ares’s labored breathing. Every movement of his is stiff with both pain and frustration. His bloodied fists clench in time with the sharp rise and fall of his shoulders.
I’ve personally never seen Dio lose in one-on-one, hand-to-hand combat before tonight, and I’m sure the victory must have tasted sweet despite the mouth full of blood the Enforcer left him with. There’s none of that elation now, though. Instead, he’s poised on a knife’s edge, straddling that adrenaline and the frustration about Leo.
But something about all of that unbridled rage trapped beneath his skin beckons to me like a siren call, and I suddenly want him to give me something— anything— other than his back.
What would it take to tip him over?
“Because he works for the enemy…or because he wasn’t one of you ?” I finally decide to toss back at him like a taunting grenade, hoping like hell he’ll bite.
The man in question doesn’t turn, only scoffs loudly, the echo like a sudden whip crack against the tiled room.
He can’t hide the small shiver that judders down his spine though, not with the way each of the taut muscles ripple along its path.
“What makes you think you have any right to chime in on who I fuck?” I take a quiet sidestep, hoping to get a better view of his side profile as I continue to needle him. “Any right to care ? If I want to fuck a Titan—hell, if I want to fuck an Ace— I’d have every right to.”
Right there. A muscle along the side of his jaw pops, but all he does is shake his head as he tears open the zipper and begins rifling through the bag’s contents.
“It's your world, Winters, we’re all just living in it.”
His voice is a wounded growl and it yanks at something unnamed—deep inside my chest cavity—and for once, I don’t think, I just move; desperate to close the distance between us.
“What is it exactly that you’re so afraid of?” I ask when I’m standing at his back.
The answering flinch is subtle, but on a man Ares’s size, that small, involuntary jump of his shoulders may as well’ve been a bellow. But for whatever reason—that jab is the hook that reels him, and he finally turns, slowly. Almost as if he expects his movements to spook me.
I already told you I don’t scare easily, Jameson.
And when he finally does face me—the sight of all that blood, sweat, and hostile ink, all covering such an obscenely ripped torso, has me biting down so hard that I taste copper on my tongue.
Jesus. Fucking. Wept.
To add insult to injury, those training shorts of his hang so criminally low that they leave absolutely nothing to the imagination. A dark treasure trail beckons me south, down to where a set of Adonis grooves carve inward on narrow hips like a tattooed air traffic controller directing me in for the landing.
There is no fucking way he’s real.
“ You ,” he says, lowly. But now that gravel edge sounds a lot less hurt —making that single-word delivery sound more like a threat than anything else.
And well, let’s just say my libido responds very well to threats. So it’s a good few seconds before my brain kicks back into gear and I even register what he said.
“Me?” I prompt ever so innocently, shrugging off my leather jacket as I recover my wits. I throw it towards the bench, where it lands beside his opened bag.
“I just know you’re gonna break us,” he practically whispers in response. Honey-brown eyes bore into my gray ones. The silver nose ring he must have slipped back in post-fight winks beneath the fluorescents.
“Why is that?”
“I’ve killed for you,” he sneers at me, instead of answering my question. A flash of surprise lights up his sharp features— there and gone —as if he didn’t actually mean to voice that sobering fact out loud.
I tilt my head, considering his body language.
I don’t think it’s the fact he shot those men in cold blood that’s bothering him, necessarily. With the way he handled himself, I’m sure he’s defended his brothers numerous times. No, I think it’s more likely an issue of how easily he found himself coming to my aid—someone who was supposedly a complete stranger to him.
My fitted baby tee slithers up and over my arms on its way to join the jacket. Ares’s gaze immediately drops to my chest, taking in the meshed bralette that does absolutely nothing to hide my piercings. Going by the growing bulge in that tiny pair of athletic shorts, I’d wager I’m not the only person in this room who’s a fan of that fact.
“Why?” I prompt again, fingers slipping into the band of my leather leggings and quickly working them down my thighs.
When I’m left standing in nothing but a matching set of sheer lingerie, Ares’s nostrils flare in frustration. My lips quirk as he continues his grapple for restraint. The expression he wears as he stands frozen before me is giving both doubt and desire equal stage time.
Eventually, Ares must decide to turn the dial on whatever’s been eating at him straight to ‘fuck it’ —because his eyes suddenly snap up to mine, full of resolve.
And they’re fucking twinkling with it.
“You're lucky I’m an ass man, Winters,” he chuckles then, and it's dark ; all traces of that earlier vulnerability now well and truly under lock and key.
With a choked laugh, my hands fly to my chest, giving the modest endowments there a single, protective squeeze. Lifting my chin, I shoot him my best attempt at an imperious look.
“Oh, so you've chosen violence then, big guy?” I demand with all the faux indignation I can muster. But it’s an epic battle just to maintain a straight face.
Because no one told me Callum Jameson had jokes.
My mocking challenge, of course, is only met with a further teasing smirk. A lazy lift of those impossibly broad, stone-cut shoulders.
“God of War, remember?”
Oh no. Have I created a monster?
I narrow my eyes. “I suppose peace was never an option, then, huh?”
Ares doesn’t answer my low taunt with words, but by bursting forth with all the delicious power and aggression of an apex predator denied their prey for far too long. Giant, tattooed hands scoop around my naked thighs, the motion jerking my ass up high and forcing my legs to wrap around his hips.
Then he’s moving us until we’re colliding roughly with the nearest vertical surface.
The corrugated wall of the makeshift structure groans on impact.
Ares’s face instantly buries between those tiny, offensive mounds of mine while one hand is busy desperately tearing down his shorts. The hot length of him slaps against my covered mound the moment it’s free and— fuck me —he’s definitely working with something thick .
Strangely, I find the fact he hasn’t even attempted to kiss me during this whole sordid process exactly one part comforting, one part insulting.
Oblivious to my wandering thoughts, and without a shred of warning—he grabs a hold of my thong and tears completely through it.
Okay, then .
“You clean?” he rasps against my collarbone, spearing two large fingers inside as he does. They enter with no resistance, of course; not with the absolute carnage going on down there.
“Clean. Covered,” I gasp back.
He withdraws them without a word, but I’m too distracted by the sharp, punishing nip of his mouth over one of my nipples, tugging the piercing there between his teeth. The flimsy material of the bralette gives about as much pushback as my pussy did his questing fingers.
Exactly zero.
“ Good, ” he growls, and with a bend of his knees, he lines himself up and then he’s driving into me so hard the wall rattles again.
“Fuck!” My eyes disappear into the back of my skull with the combined surge of pleasure and pain at his unapologetic breach. There’s also the extra pressure and drag of a large ring I wasn’t expecting, but considering the rest of his canvas, shouldn’t at all be surprised by.
“ Shit, ” he curses against my neck as he straightens, “can’t fucking believe it.”
Neither can I, big guy.
And then Ares is rutting into me like this is both the first and last time; all the building frustration and tension between us translated into each violent thrust. I can’t breathe, let alone form coherent words. I just let the clench of my cunt and his desperate, answering strokes speak them for the both of us.
Hard, fast, and punishing.
Just the way I prefer it.
By the time I feel the orgasm building...burning…and finally bursting , the locker room wall is very much in danger of coming down around us.
“Fuck, Winters, yes ,” Ares pants out, a bead of sweat winging its way down his temple, “I’m right there. Are you there?”
“Ah, fuck, now ,” I cry my response into the sweat-slicked, auburn mess of his crown.
With my words, he grunts once against my skin, rough hands yanking my hips tight against him as he spills inside me.
Our twin breaths are unnaturally loud in the silence that follows, chests heaving in sync. He takes his time slipping out of me, easing me back down to the ground with uncharacteristic gentleness. With Ares no longer inside me, our combined mess gleefully coats the inside of my wobbly thighs.
“Not bad, Winters,” he barks, tucking himself back into his shorts with a nod.
Be still my heart. “Ah, you say such sweet things, Jameson,” I quip back, with absolutely no heat. I feel sore and achy and yet so incredibly light.
I watch with further amusement as he reaches down and snatches up the shredded remains of my underwear. I only raise my brow at him, silently saluting another fallen comrade. But now, I wish I was still on good terms with our Accountants—I kind of want to know whether or not I can claim ongoing lingerie replacement as a work expense.
“Spoils of war,” he declares with another smug shrug, before tucking them safely into the band of his shorts.
I can’t help but grin at his caveman antics, but he doesn’t return it. His expression quickly sobers instead. Simmering amber eyes hold me hostage with their intensity. “Don’t fucking break us, Winters.”
And as he turns his back, I could swear he adds a muttered, “ Not again .”
Then I’m once again left with the empty, accusing stare of a giant, rotting skull.
When I finally emerge, Dionysus is ready and waiting, having already showered in the opponent’s locker room while I was busy assisting Ares. His dirty blond hair is now wet and neatly combed, and there’s a fresh Steri-Strip over his brow.
“Slick little setup they got down here,” he says with an appreciative whistle.
I’d been expecting innuendo the moment I stepped out, but his gaze as he takes in the massive fighting cage and its tiered seating actually is admiring.
“You’ll have to build me one of these once we’re all settled,” he sighs in that way he always does when he’s daydreaming about our mythical life after the Gray Man.
If only a happy ending was in the cards for me.
“The Aces do love their fight clubs,” I cajole, weaving my way through the bloodthirsty throng and trying not to roll my eyes at his happy delusions.
“So,” Dio says as he jogs back to my side, rubbing his hands together. “Is he as big as he looks? Pretty sure I got a good hint of what he’s working with during that last takedown.”
Aaand there it is.
I shoot him a careful side-eye, trying to gauge his thoughts about Ares and me.The two of us have never claimed to be exclusive, but does that automatically translate into him being on board with my fucking around with the rest of the Pantheon?
“Uh, yeah, you called it. My fingertips wouldn’t have been able to touch, that’s for sure.” I give him a strained chuckle.
D’s brows raise expectantly. “You don’t know?”
“I didn’t exactly get to test that theory; it was just a quickie.”
His eyes jump between mine, assessing, before he prompts more seriously, “But you wanted it, yeah?”
“What’s not to want?” I laugh again, this time a little more genuinely.
“ Baby, don’t do that,” Dionysus scolds me. He blows out a breath, measuring his next words. “I think it’s different, with them. You’re different.”
My forehead wrinkles and I shoot him a dirty look. What bullshit is he on about now? “Different, how?”
D moves in closer, bumping his shoulder against mine.
“You’ve been back for seconds and thirds with Hermes,” he says pointedly. “And Apollo’s hit that, what—twice now? Right?” He punctuates that particular observation with an appreciative and not-at-all-subtle glance back at my ass.
I mean… he’s not wrong.
Before the Boys, Dio had been the only one I’d ever allowed a repeat performance.
Why?
Because he never questions why .
And he understands me well enough that he doesn’t need to.
I might even go so far as to say he understands me better than anyone.
The way Ares and I had come together was brutal. Animalistic. So fucking hot.
And perhaps, somewhere underneath the surface of all that raw physical chemistry, there’d been a flash of something else.
But that doesn’t mean he’s right. Right?
“ When was the last time you got high?” he asks suddenly.
I blink.
“High? Um. Day before the Symposium.” Blunts in an abandoned lifeguard hut with a certain curly-haired trickster.
“Seriously?”
Am I?
Maybe I’ve thrown back a few Xannies here and there…but nothing even close to the usual amount.
The realization is like soft prickles across my scalp, and I really don’t like scalp prickles. They usually precede either a need for self-preservation or a need for self-reflection, and right now?
A little of column A, a little of column B.
“Maybe I should pump the breaks then, especially if we’re going to all be working together,” I offer, half-heartedly.
That has D instantly slamming to a stop and choking out a laugh. “Did you seriously just imply you shouldn’t shit where you eat?!” His huge body bends at the waist with his mirth.
“ Fuck. No , what I meant was— ” I start to grumble, and if I could still blush, I think my face would be hot enough to land me a bed in the burns ward.
Kill me now.
I pick up my pace.
“I think we’re a little past that, don’t you?” the shithead continues in the same teasing tone as he dogs my steps. “Because, I mean, I’ve definitely eaten where y?—”
“Don’t even think about finishing that fucking sentence, Orbison,” I groan like I’ve been shot. “What I meant , was: I’ve already got you and Zeus, right? I don’t need that much free-range dick to get through the day.”
“Wow,” Dio murmurs, his steps stuttering for a moment.
I glance at him with a frown. “What? You can have too much of a good thing, you know,” my stupid mouth says. “Haven’t you ever accidentally killed a plant by overwatering it before?”
“ Wow ,” he breathes again, massive shoulders pulling up around his neck as he looks away.
The oddly defensive posture is a completely foreign one, and it’s answered by a sharp crack , deep within the core of my chest.
Suddenly, I can’t even look at the man I’ve let consensually violate me in a hundred different ways.
I surge forward, ignoring as Dio calls my name.
Can’t a girl just have a crisis of conscience in peace?
All he gets is my back as I push through the Underground’s heaving crowd. With the second round only just concluding, the place is packed to the brim with milling pundits, most of them now reeking of sweat and cheap booze.
The only way in or out of the hidden arena is through a decommissioned fire door that leads out onto a branch of subterranean tunnels beneath the Guardhouse.
Dio doesn’t call my name again as I push through it, just lets his heavy footsteps rattle the rusty metal catwalk as he shadows me.
As soon as I reach the central walkway, I plunge in the opposite direction to the way we came in, not exactly sure where I’m even headed. I’ve only been down here once before, and that was when I was half out of my mind, thanks to Sloane’s hotshot of Asphodel.
I stomp along in silence until finally, I spot a familiar fire exit through the semi-darkness.
And when I shove through it, I find myself standing at the bottom of the same alley again. With the same putrid-smelling dumpster. The same fenced dead-end, still littered with cigarettes, and the same steep incline back to street level.
I let out a strangled wheeze at the irony.
Because it’s also the same place I first stepped across that invisible line with The Rox Boys.
I think it’s different, with them. You’re different.
The place the first of these cursed fucking dominos had begun to fall.