four -Ares-
four
-Ares-
It’s been almost two weeks. Two weeks in which I haven’t gotten any closer to finding out what the fuck happened back there with Brynn.
Two weeks of trying to convince myself every damn night not to go to the basement and see her.
But the more I put it off, the more I fear I won't be able to control myself when we finally meet again.
I only went to see her after the doctor stitched her leg up.
As much as I wanted to stay away, I just couldn’t find it in me to leave her without seeing for myself that she was all right.
I might want to kill her myself, but I couldn’t imagine her actually dying on me.
Pretty fucked up, I know, but then again, things have been pretty fucked up ever since she came into my life.
It was only after I was completely sure she was out of danger that my true anger started to pool.
It came in rivers, poisoning my mind and soul, pushing reason aside and making me focus only on one thing: her betrayal.
The way she snuck into my life, maybe even into my bed to carry out her final goal–ending me.
That’s when I decided I couldn’t be there, next to her, anymore.
I’m all too aware of the true darkness that lies within, and staying there as the dark thoughts came rushing in would’ve led to something I’d regret.
I kept my distance for both of our sake, even though it felt like the hardest thing I’ve ever done.
It’s not the not seeing her that troubles me, even though something deep inside me screams to do it.
It’s the flood of emotions that hit whenever I think about her—whenever I think that the only woman I ever loved was ready to take my life.
Yes, I want to know why, but I also fear how I’ll react when I find out.
Over the millennia, I’ve learned to control myself, but she keeps raising the bar, testing me every time we speak.
Surprising me every time I’m alone with her.
That’s what kept me away… well, that and an unholy need to punish her. So unholy that the things that I’d do to her would put the devil himself to shame—aka my father.
The days felt like years. I only left the house for a few hours at a time, and only when business forced me to. It’s not that I didn’t have the security to keep her inside. It’s just that I couldn’t bring myself to leave her.
That’s why I hired Mrs. Holloway. To take care of her and bring her everything she needs until she recovers.
I’m gonna let her out of there eventually.
I don’t have a long-term plan for her, but I need to make sure that I can handle seeing her.
Or maybe it’s not as much seeing her as it is whatever fit she might throw.
I was just starting to think I was getting things under control, when a loud knock shook through the house, instantly throwing me off balance.
I knew exactly where that knock came from.
Before I could reach my laptop, another followed, then another.
Brynn was getting tired of playing the captive.
The camera I installed in the hallway just confirmed it.
She’s standing, or more likely propped, against the door that leads into the house, knocking like she’s trying to break it. Summoning me.
Fucking shit, I miss her calling out my name.
It’s the first time I've seen her in weeks. I didn’t want to install a camera in her room—not because I care about her privacy.
At this point, I don’t give a fuck about her privacy.
However, I do care about my sanity, and knowing I could watch her twenty-four seven would probably turn me into a freak glued to a monitor.
But now that I see her, that ambition almost impossible for a human, that power inside her, and the dormant hatred I never noticed before. All of it there, all meant to leave an irreparable mark on my mind.
That’s exactly why I tried to ignore her, because I’m not well. There’s a tingle down my spine that lets me know I’m capable of doing something stupid, and I’m not sure which way that would go. Because I can’t tell for sure if I’d listen to her or kill her.
At least I have enough sanity left to stay away. To keep that door closed.
I pour myself a glass of whiskey. Not that it helps. My kind needs a much stronger drink to get even slightly drunk. I’m just hoping for a placebo effect, trick myself into thinking of anything else but her.
Highly unlikely with all that knocking. But just as I finish the bottle, the knocking and shouting have stopped.
I look at the cameras, hoping that she has given up.
I have my doubts about that because she’s not the type to ever give up.
I admire that about her, she’s just like me in a way.
Ambitious, determined, fearless, maybe even damn mad in some situations, like taking on a fucking god.
She’s brave, I have to give her that, or maybe she’s purely reckless to do something like this.
Speaking of that, I watch her walk—if it can be called that—into one of the rooms where I keep my art collections and emerge with a large dust cloth.
She heads straight toward my rack of wines.
And when I say heads, it’s relative because it takes her far longer than I’d normally have the patience to watch to get there.
At first, I think she’s given up and is heading back to her room, though the cloth is still a mystery.
But then I realize what she’s really doing.
She’s going for the rack. My wine rack, from where she pulls six bottles that, together, cost more than this entire house.
Then she takes off one of her slippers and shoves a bottle of Romanée-Conti 1945 inside it.
Only 600 bottles were made, of which I own ten.
Scratch that, from what I’m watching, I think that’s nine now because she takes off her pants, wraps them around the slipper, and slams the bottle against the wall until the cork loosens enough for her to pull it out by hand.
I lived in ancient Greece, and I still haven’t seen anything like that before.
Well, she’s inventive. I have to give that to her, but considering she’s drinking a half-million-dollar bottle of wine straight from the damn bottle makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up.
It’s not even about her drinking my wine. It’s about her not appreciating it.
My fists clench as she shoves the cork back in and drops the bottle along with the others in the sheet. Then, she carries it across the hallway. My chest is tightening every time those bottles clink.
I’m sitting at my laptop in the kitchen, my hands gripping the island counter, my breath, almost nonexistent like I’m watching a fucking horror movie.
Only I never get scared of horror movies.
Though this shit... This shit right here has the potential to throw me completely off track.
It’s like she knows exactly which buttons to push, and dismissing any kind of danger, she does.
It takes her a while to reach the stairs, and every single muscle in my body is tight by the time she does.
The bottles clink so loudly I’m surprised they haven’t broken yet.
I have a bad feeling about this. I have a bad feeling about what I might be capable of doing if she pushes me even farther.
“Ares, open the fucking door now!” She shouts, and she should know better than that I won’t give in to threats. Then she shouts again, calling my name, summoning me to let her out. For a second, I consider that she doesn’t have it in her to take it any further.
But then the unimaginable happens, and she throws one of the bottles at the door, trying to get my attention. I didn’t catch the label, though judging from the shape of the bottle, the fucking thing she threw had a six-digit price tag.
I’m hot all of a sudden. Not hot like on a sunny day level, more like the fires of hell level hot.
She threatens again, another bottle follows, and I hear a snap.
It’s the island counter turning the dust beneath my palms, as I try to restrain myself.
I swear I’d do everything in my power to stay fucking calm and not go down there, because the chances of her making it out alive are getting slimmer by the second.
Then another bottle follows, and I feel my pupils darken. It’s not about the price tag; it’s the defiance, the way she knows she’s defying me and keeps doing it anyway.
Then another follows. I don’t even look at the screen to try to tell which one it fucking is. I just feel my T-shirt stretch extra tight over me as my muscles expand and my teeth grind so hard they might crack.
I start walking toward the door, and the second I’m in front of it, I hear her screaming again. “Open the fucking door, Ares.”
How dare she? I fucking trusted her, let her into my house, let her into my bed, and she was only chasing her own vengeance. Now she thinks she can put on this fucking show in my house?
I catch myself letting out a snarl, almost animalistic, almost inhuman, and no matter how badly I want to stop myself from going down there, I can’t. I just open the fucking door, unsure of what might happen next.