thirteen -Brynn-
thirteen
-Brynn-
I have a bad feeling about this, but it’s not like I can do anything about it.
I just follow Ares down the hallway, then limp my way up the stairs, each step sending stabbing pain through my injured leg.
Not that he fucking cares. He doesn’t even look back, doesn’t offer to help, and he’s probably right anyway because I’m not the kind who would accept it.
The bastard strides ahead, knowing I can’t keep up. “Could you slow down?” I mutter under my breath, “Some of us are limping here.” I snap, knowing I’m gonna lose him sooner or later, and I’m not in the mood to go wandering through the whole house looking for him.
He ignores me completely, like he didn’t even hear the sound of my voice, or perhaps he’s trying to control me with some kind of power play.
He wants me to hobble behind him, struggling to keep up like a wounded animal. I could never be that person. Except, right now, our circumstances are… special, and I know deep down he won’t forgive me before he gets his revenge. That’s exactly what I would do.
I swallow the bitter taste of humiliation and force myself to walk faster, refusing to give him another reason to do something stupid. Especially since I have a bad feeling that he’s already set his mind on something.
I watch him walk down the corridor and disappear inside his office. There’s nothing much left for me to do than to follow his trail. Still, I pause at the threshold like something inside me is warning me not to follow.
But what choice do I have? It’s not like I have somewhere to run, and I need his help getting to the bottom of this. Maybe I even need his forgiveness more than I let myself realize.
I step into his office, where the thick curtains are pulled, blocking all the natural light, but I can still see the pictures on the walls of all the buildings where he organized Kharon.
Now there’s another picture too, the one of the asylum.
For the first time, I realize what they truly mean.
It’s not just about the game. It’s about winning at a much more complex level, and seeing that picture lined up there with the rest of the buildings that are now ashes, feels like it’s lifted a burden from me.
My attention goes back to Ares as he settles into a high-back chair behind his massive desk, like we’re about to have a business meeting.
He reaches for the humidor sitting there, selects a cigar, and slowly goes through the ritual of preparing it, like he has all the time in the world, and he didn’t just find out that someone is keeping an eye on him.
It’s been a long while since I’ve felt this awkward or this helpless. I just stand at the door, pondering if I should just walk away or ask him what the fuck we’re doing here?
The snap of his lighter breaks the silence. As he takes his first drag, there’s an orange glow that illuminates his sharp cheekbones, the strong line of his jaw, those hazel eyes that track my movements like I’m his prey and he’s the hunter.
The smoke curls around him as a wicked smile rises on his face. It makes him look like the devil, and it’s in the following second that I realize he actually is one. “Strip,” he commands, no other explanation, the single word filling the room with a weight I can’t define. He’s not fucking kidding.
For a moment, I think I’ve misheard him, or at least I hope so. The dull pain in my leg and the tension from earlier must be playing tricks on my ears. But his expression doesn’t change; those predatory eyes are fixed on me with expectation.
He’s not fucking for real, is he?
Still, he doesn’t say anything, just stares at me like he’s expecting me to process the order.
I arch an eyebrow. “Fuck you.” There’s no way he actually expects me to do that. It’s not like he hasn’t seen me naked, but I’m not good at following commands, especially commands in that tone.
His eyes narrow, but his posture doesn’t change.
He just takes another drag of his cigar, the amber glow brightening momentarily before he exhales a perfect ring of smoke.
“I wouldn’t toy with me if I were you.” He takes another drag out of the cigar.
“You’re already on thin ice, and I’m feeling… uncharitable.”
The threat lingers in the air, and for a second, I see that side of him I met after I fucked up bringing 404 in. The dangerous side that has no morals, maybe not even emotions.
I’ve seen what happens to people who crossed Ares when he’s feeling uncharitable.
If I had a sane bone in my body, I would feel terrified. Obey him and maybe even beg for forgiveness. Instead, a heat I can’t control grows low in my belly.
“Grab that chair,” he gestures to a straight-back chair in the corner with a lazy flick of his fingers. “And bring it to the center of the room.”
I don’t comply immediately, like I’m enjoying testing the boundaries of his patience. His expression doesn’t change, but a thick tension fills the air around us like clouds gathering before a storm. And I’m in no condition to be hit by lightning right now.
Accepting defeat, I limp to the chair. The pain in my leg is a welcome distraction from the unwanted warmth between my thighs.
I drag the damn thing across the expensive, probably antique Persian carpet, making sure the legs catch and snag on the fibers.
Fuck you, Ares.
I hear a snarl from across the room, and as if I’m getting my punishment for what I just did, he opens a drawer and takes out a remote control.
Music instantly fills the office from hidden speakers.
The strings creating a tense backdrop to our standoff, and I know there can be only one winner, because this is a soundtrack to my humiliation.
“Now,” he says, resting his elbows on his desk and steepling his fingers beneath his chin, “let me be perfectly clear so there is no misunderstanding between us. You will start removing your clothes one by one while you entertain me.”
“Perfectly clear, my ass. What the hell are you saying?” I laugh, telling myself this is a joke. He wouldn’t be asking this of me.
“I’m saying you’ll strip for me while riding the chair,” he says, clipped, like there’s no room for negotiation.
My throat constricts in a mix of rage and something even more devastating than that. I hate that casual way he commands as if my compliance should come naturally. “I’m not a fucking stripper,” I mutter, getting ready to leave the room. He’s fucking lost his mind.
A cold smile blooms on his lips. “You’re whatever the fuck I want.” The tone of his voice rises to a dangerous notch. “Plus, I’m feeling indisposed today. So I need entertainment. And guess fucking what... you’re the entertainment.”
He taps the ash from his cigar like he just set out the terms of a business deal, and there’s no room for negotiation.
“Do you really see me as the kind of woman to dance like this?” I’m one second away from jumping over the desk and gouging his eyes out.
But the intensity in them changes, and it’s nothing good.
“I don’t fucking care. Do you see me as the kind of man to forgive you after what you did?
” he asks, and deep down, I know what the real punishment for betrayal should have been, no matter who I was or what was between us.
“So, I’d call it a start for both of us.
I’ll work on forgiving you. And you’ll work on fulfilling all of my fantasies…
you know… just so I feel it’s worth it.”
“I would rather throw the chair at you,” I spit back, my chest heaving with anger, knowing there’s no real other way around it.
“We’ll get to your fantasies later. After you behave long enough to convince me you're worth fulfilling them. Now. Fucking. Strip.”
My teeth clench, and I grab the back of the chair until my knuckles turn white. The music plays around us. The sensual vibe fills the room like it’s urging me to do what Ares asks of me, while I keep weighing my options and finding none.
Still, there's something in me that keeps me from obeying him, from doing it, especially since I know he’s only asking me to strip to see how far I’d go into pleasing him.
But I don’t get much time before he’s up from his chair, his fist resting on the table, “Strip,” he repeats, his patience visibly thinning, “or I’ll do it for you.”
I don’t know what madness comes over me, but I refuse to get onto the chair.
“No,” the word snaps from my mouth as a reflex.
We both know I have nowhere to run, no other choice, but I’ll be damned if I make this easy for him.
“I’m not your fucking personal stripper, Ares. Get your fucking kicks somewhere else.”
His eyes gradually change to pitch black, the temperature in the room seems to drop several degrees as he studies me with the cold interest of a scientist observing the next thing he’ll dissect.
“Last warning, Brynn. You fucking do what you’re told, or I’ll build a cage for you where I will keep you for the rest of your fucking days.
But make no mistake I will get my fucking kicks with you. ”
A chill runs down my spine. This isn’t his voice.
It’s something much colder, something that even I fear waking up in him.
And it’s then that I realize: the things I’ve done, my betrayal, along with discovering that his organization has a weakness, must’ve gotten to him.
This isn’t something casual. He’s one moment away from blowing the roof off, and I’m not helping when that’s exactly what he’s asking of me.
Help him relax; even if it’s in his own fucked up way.
Fucking shit…
I look at him like I’m about to kill him, but turn the chair around and get on it, riding it backward. The music changes. Something with a slower, more sensual rhythm, and my face burns with humiliation because I know he doesn’t just want to see me naked; he wants a performance. He wants surrender.
“I’m not good at this,”—any of it, as a matter of fact, not the performance and definitely not the surrender.