twenty-five -Brynn-
twenty-five
-Brynn-
The mountain road stretches before us like a snake, each curve revealing glimpses of the dense forest. McAllister’s assistant texted Ares the coordinates of his mountain retreat, and we’re on our way there.
Ares drives with one hand on the wheel, the other holding my own hand, his fingers occasionally tightening as if to remind me of the fire between us. Like I need reminding... My fucking body hums when I’m around him, my mind coming up with more dirty scenarios than actual plans of revenge.
The trees thin as we climb higher, revealing a slate gray sky that threatens us with snow.
My window fogs with each breath, creating a temporary canvas where I trace invisible patterns with my fingertip.
At first, I think they’re random, but then I realize I’m drawing Ares’ mark.
I wipe it off quickly before he notices it.
It’s not like he forbids me to wear it, like the guy who works for him and wanted to have it as a tattoo.
I’m allowed to wear his mark, do whatever the fuck I want with it.
It’s more like I don’t want him to know I am this desperate for him that I started writing his name on the walls like a second grader.
Because yes, I am that desperate for him.
“We’re being watched,” he says, his eyes moving to the rearview mirror. “Cameras on the tree line.”
Now that he mentioned it, I see a few black devices beneath the branches. “Too paranoid for a senator,” I say, knowing no politician, unless he’s the president, would need that much protection. We’re probably more than a mile away from his house.
“Not paranoid enough,” he smiles in a way that has danger written all over it.
The road widens as we approach the large iron gates that must stand fifteen feet high, topped with decorative spears that look sharp enough to impale. A security panel stands at the entrance, and Ares rolls down his window, looking at the camera and waiting for it to scan him.
“McAllister put my face into the system,” he explains before I can ask.
“His assistant had me sign some agreement to collect my data. All legal on the outside. Too bad he forgot to sign a fucking agreement when he hacked into my security.” The gate swings open as Ares explains.
Beyond it stretches a wide driveway flanked by ancient oaks, whose branches form an arch overhead.
At its end stands a stone mansion that’s more like a castle than regular vacation home.
“Subtle,” I mutter.
“You know what they say, the man probably has to compensate for something.”
A woman in a tailored black suit waits at the entrance. Her black hair is pinned into a severe bun, and her expression seems like it’s carved from the same stone as the house behind her. Short translation: She looks like an uptight bitch.
“Welcome,” she says as we exit the car, scanning us from head to toe for a moment, even more effectively than the camera at the entrance. “We talked on the phone. I’m Vivian, Senator McAllister’s personal assistant.”
Truth is, I know who she is before she introduces herself.
We did a little background check of our own on her, and 404 mentioned her in one of his files.
The thing is, she’s not just an assistant.
Senator McAllister takes her on vacations, weekend getaways, the rest...
She’s not really present in Seattle since that’s the same city his wife is in but is with him everywhere else.
“Ares,” he replies, giving no family name. I’ve thought about this a few times. Do gods even have family names?
Everyone calls him just Ares. No one risks asking him for more details, probably assuming it’s the name he took for himself.
I’ve seen him sign some documents with Ares Theron. I’ve even searched it online, and discovered it means Hunter. Something powerful, just like the man who claims the name.
Vivian looks at us and smiles, or at least tries to. “Ares and guest. You’re the last to arrive.”
I didn’t like the way she said “guest” like I’m nothing important, a plus one of no consequence.
I hate it even more that Ares doesn’t explain to her that I’m not just a simple guest. I’m the fucking reason he wakes up every morning. But I also know why he’s not doing it. He told me a thousand times he thinks this is dangerous and that I should stay home, lay low... blah... blah... blah.
But I can’t help myself from correcting her. “Brynn.” I meet her gaze until she’s forced to acknowledge me.
“Of course. Follow me, please.”
The entrance hall is nothing like I imagined. The plush carpet is the color of dried blood, and as we venture further inside, the hair on the back of my neck prickles with unease. It’s like a fucking horror room. Death surrounds us everywhere, mounted on every available surface.
A massive grizzly bear is ready to roar at us in the corner; its glass eyes almost look real.
Deer heads watch from mahogany plaques, more than I can count.
Exotic predators I hate to look at—tigers, lions, even a fucking rhino.
The perfect example of where money doesn’t buy common sense.
“Jesus,” I breathe, unable to hide my revulsion, and I immediately get a snarl from Ares in return.
Yeah, sorry about that.
“The senator is an avid conservationist,” Vivian explains, mistaking my disgust for some kind of awe. Yeah, like that’s fucking possible. “Many of these specimens were taken as part of controlled population management programs.”
She’s so full of shit. This display isn’t for conservation, it's for conquest. A fucking shrine to compensate for something. Right now, I’d say a tiny dick.
“Ah, my guests have arrived!” a voice echoes through the hall as Senator McAllister emerges from a side room.
Despite the fact we’re indoors, he’s dressed in a full hunting outfit. Khaki pants tucked into leather boots, a vest with too many pockets to be stylish, and a matching flannel shirt.
The outfit should look ridiculous, a custom for a man playing alpha male. Instead, it unnerves me. He’s too comfortable in it, like the damn thing is a second layer of skin.
“Welcome to my humble retreat,” McAllister says, extending his hand to greet us. “I’m delighted you accepted my invitation.” He claps Ares’ hand for a second before turning to me. His hand remains in mine longer, his thumb stroking my inner wrist in a gesture meant to establish dominance.
I force myself not to flinch, not to show how my skin crawls at his touch. I just hope Ares missed it because I know he would rip his head off without asking any more questions.
“Your home is impressive,” I say, withdrawing my hand as soon as he lets go. “Quite a collection.”
“Just the smaller trophies here,” he replies with false modesty. “The real prizes are in the trophy room. I’ll give you the tour after you’ve settled in.”
Great, more dead animals. I think I threw up in my mouth a little when he said trophy room.
Through the windows, I count at least six luxury vehicles parked in the courtyard. Range Rovers, a Bentley, two Mercedes G-Wagons. Vivian mentioned we were the last to arrive, so I guess that’s all of us.
“Drinks?” McAllister gestures toward a crystal decanter on a side table. “Single malt. Forty years old. Smoother than a virgin’s thigh.”
I can’t even tell if he's libidinous in that way, or if he’s just trying to test our reactions, but I maintain my neutral expression to his words while Ares accepts a glass.
“To new and old friendships,” McAllister proposes, raising his tumbler.
“The ride here must have been exhausting,” he says, setting down his empty glass.
“Vivian will show you to your accommodations. Dinner is at eight. All the good people will be here. One of my men will bring your luggage to your room soon. And if you’re kind enough to give me your car keys, he’ll take the vehicle to the inner yard. ”
I try to force a smile, but fail while Ares hands him the keys. Next, Vivian leads us toward the grand staircase, and I can’t help but feel McAllister’s eyes on us. Or maybe it’s because of all of these damn hunting trophies that seem to track our movement, glass eyes gazing creepily at us.
This isn’t just a house. It’s a taxidermist’s dream, and most people’s nightmare.
When we get to the room, we don’t talk about anything essential to our plan or anything that could give us away.
We know about potential bugs or hidden cameras, we won’t risk fucking this up.
We just act normal, spend a couple of hours in bed, Ares lying down, pretending to watch TV, while I wrap my arms around his torso, feeling the rapid rhythm of his heartbeats and watching from time to time as that dark flash runs through his eyes as he fights to keep himself composed.
I place a hand over his heart, an unspoken plea for him to calm down.
He finally does so, at least for a while, because, as we look at the clock on the wall, we realize it’s seven, and it’s time for us to get ready for dinner.
This is just one of the formalities we need to go through to find a weak spot and get him alone and cornered.
So we pretend to enjoy everything he says, to be absorbed by everything that surrounds us, while we’re in fact just fishing for opportunities.
***
“This is where the real art lives,” McAllister announces, swinging open a set of double doors carved with scenes of men on horseback pursuing terrified prey.
The trophy room in front of us makes the entrance hall displays seem modest by comparison.
Mounted heads, cover every inch of wall space.
There are creatures from every continent, those glass eyes reflecting our entrance like an audience of the dead.
Even the floor is covered in different exotic pelts.
Tigers, lions, zebras, and my feet become wobbly because I have the sensation that I’m walking across fucking graves.