twenty-six -Brynn-
twenty-six
-Brynn-
The morning sun shines over the frost-covered grass of McAllister’s private football pitch.
Ares digs one of his boots into the turf, testing his weight with movements that reveal a little too clearly that he’s not just a great athlete.
This isn’t just a game. Nothing with him ever is.
The ball drops between the men while I’m on the sidelines beside their women, watching Ares’ first move.
We are all sitting on white iron chairs beneath a pergola, with fancy cocktails already in hand, though I’ve barely touched mine.
The rest of the men get into position. “First one to five?” McAllister calls, trying to sound more relaxed than he really is.
Ares lunges while the others scramble to mirror his movement, but he’s faster, his foot connects with the ball while using his body as a shield between McAllister and his prize. The rest of the men are close behind as he heads toward the goal.
One of the silver-haired guys, Benedict—just like the eggs—appreciates his speed, and I can tell Ares overdid it a little. “You move well,” he says more in masked jealousy than in praise.
“Exceptional reflexes,” McAllister responds with the same mixed feelings in his voice.
Ares drives the ball forward, aware of their scrutiny, but focuses on the goal more.
You can’t take the spirit of a winner away from him.
No matter how hard you try. This time, he slides into McAllister’s pathway more gently than I know he’s got in him.
McAllister makes a charge, feints left, then cuts right, but Ares anticipates, stealing the ball with too much ease for the rest of the men not to feel at a disadvantage.
He smiles almost ironically as he moves to the opposite direction.
The women beside me abandon any pretense of conversation, all their attention is now fixed on the game. Or more likely, on my man.
They’ve been scrolling through their phones all morning, some of them even tried to initiate conversations with me, showing different social media posts or memes, or even showing me the new Instagram exaggerated filters, as if their faces aren’t enough.
I understand a milliliter or two put to good use, but these ladies went for the whole bottle.
One leans forward, her chin propped in her hand, tracking Ares’ moves with a gaze that betrays she’s undressing him in her mind. Another whispers behind her hand to her companion, both chuckling right after.
I’m doing my best not to kill them right now, but I can’t promise anyone that some of them won’t have an accident before this getaway is over.
I try to return my gaze to Ares and focus on him and only him. He plays in a calculated, very restrained way, trying not to go too quickly and kill anyone in the process. The others struggle to match his steps, their bodies engaged in a fight of advance and retreat, neither willing to yield ground.
The ball becomes just an excuse. What matters now is the push and pull, the silent mutual challenge between men with too much testosterone.
I’m officially sick.
Ares scores first, slipping the ball past McAllister with a move that leaves the man momentarily flat-footed. His eyes narrow, that envy and jealousy surfacing again. “Lucky shot,” McAllister says, but the pride in his voice only betrays the dismissal.
The game intensifies. They trade goals, neither gaining sufficient advantage. 2-1. 2-2. 3-2.
I know that wouldn’t be the case if Ares were actually trying. But he’s holding back. I can see in the way he pulls his tackles just short of his true strength.
The score reaches 4-4. The final point hangs in the balance, and Ares has possession of the ball, driving toward the goal.
McAllister mirrors his movements, searching for an opening.
Ares feints, McAllister commits, and suddenly Ares is past. Nothing between him and victory now, but an open field.
Instead of taking the easy shot, he hesitates—a fraction of a second, barely noticeable to anyone but me.
Just enough time for McAllister to recover and to slide in with a desperate tackle that sends them both tumbling onto the grass.
They land in a tangle of limbs, Ares’ body partially covering McAllister’s, and I know his weight is carefully distributed or he would’ve crushed the man by now.
McAllister’s face is inches from his, breathless and more than a little shocked.
“Excellent match!” McAllister’s voice covers his anger as he strides across the pitch, applauding with a little too much enthusiasm to be genuine. “A draw seems fitting between such evenly matched opponents.”
Yeah, in your fucking dreams…
Ares rises with ease, like all the effort was nothing to him, then looks at McAllister almost with pity for the way the man is fabulating.
“Lunch awaits on the terrace,” McAllister continues, gesturing toward the house where staff is arranging tables. “We are all famished after such a challenging game.”
The terrace offers a panoramic view of the surrounding mountains, the high peaks disappearing into the clouds.
I play with my grilled salmon and microgreens, listening to McAllister, who commands the attention of his guests with his hunting stories, each more elaborate and more disgusting than the last.
“I tracked the melanistic jaguar for three days through the ,” he says, his pride on full display.
“Locals swore it was a ghost jaguar. Said it killed a dozen men before me,” he pauses for effect, looking at his captive audience.
“What they don’t understand is that every creature has a weakness. Find it, and even the best can fall.”
His eyes find Ares across the table, and the challenge is unmistakable. Beside him, the egg-named man nods, his gaze sliding to me so intensely that it turns my blood cold.
I reach for my water glass, my fingers steady despite the warning bells clanging in my mind.
After lunch, McAllister rises from his chair, satisfied with all the attention he received.
“I’d like to show you the stables,” he announces, his invitation directed at Ares, though his eyes linger on me once again.
“I’ve recently acquired a stallion with bloodlines that trace back to the Mongol empire. ”
The other guests disperse to different amusements like billiards and the endless bottles of expensive liquor, while we follow McAllister down a stone path behind the main house.
I catch Ares looking at the security cameras in the yard. The damn things are everywhere.
We walk through tended to the inch gardens, where not a single leaf grows out of place. Everything is controlled here. A perfection that’s too perfect, like he’s trying to bend everything to his will.
“I keep seven horses,” McAllister explains as we approach a building that looks more like a luxury hotel than a stable. “Each one is special, but Warlord—” he says the name with the pride of a father. “—he’s something truly exceptional.”
The stable doors slide open automatically at our approach, and I really want to ask him if he’s for real. Who puts automatic doors on a stable? I just can’t understand this level of wealth.
The temperature inside is warm, just like in the main house, and the center aisle is covered in immaculate rubber matting.
Even the scent is surprisingly pleasant.
Fresh hay, with only the faintest hint of horse.
I notice a guy discreetly cleaning the stalls, disposing of the animal waste as soon as it appears.
McAllister is some kind of control freak taken to another level.
“This facility is burning a hole into my pocket,” he continues, gesturing expansively, so we can take a good look at the wonder surrounding us. “Climate-controlled, automatic waterers, my horses live better than most humans.”
“Impressive,” Ares comments, with fake admiration.
I know him enough to detect the slight disgust at this display of wealth.
It’s not about the beautiful animals. It’s about the automatic doors and the man sitting at their asses to shovel shit at the moment it’s produced.
There is a natural order of things. McAllister has ventured past that to the ridiculous.
We stop before a large stall where a massive black stallion looks at us. His coat shines like ink, muscles rippling with strength. There’s something regal in him, a dignity that not even captivity can diminish.
“Warlord,” McAllister announces with pride in every syllable.
“His bloodline traces directly to Genghis Khan’s personal mount.
DNA verified. There are only three horses in the world with this genetic marker, and I own two of them.
” He starts talking forever about the breeding potential, the competition record, and another million other things I don’t pay attention to.
He’s so boring that I eventually take a few steps further to examine one of the few saddles displayed like museum pieces.
They’re not ancient. Something more recent, but one of them shows a human figure being chased by men on horses. This is a fucking hunting ritual.
“You ride?” McAllister asks, catching my interest.
“I have some experience,” I answer, without telling him that my experience was only a couple of hours long while I was with one of the foster families. We went to the circus, and they had free horse riding for children. Nothing impressive on my part, but at least I didn’t fall.
“Maybe you’ll come back for another weekend, and I’ll take both of you riding. There’s nothing quite like the connection between horse and rider. The sensation when you get such a powerful creature to submit to you.”
Ares walks beside me. “Speaking of different activities, I’d like to get a sense of the terrain. Maybe I’ll take Brynn for a walk in the woods this afternoon.”
McAllister‘s expression changes for a second, then a large smile appears on his face. “Of course, that’s a great idea. The eastern trails are very scenic. My guests have free rein of the property. Just watch out for wild animals. We did have some wolves around here recently.”
I’m seeing one right in front of me.
“Well, dinner is at eight as usual. I suggest going soon so you still catch light. You should change into something more appropriate. It’s getting chilly outside.”
He walks us back toward the main house, where the man with the scar on his face, whose name I didn’t catch, waits on the terrace, watching our interaction.
I really don’t like this man.
We don’t go and change because McAllister says so, but because our clothes aren’t fit for hiking. I’m wearing some elegant pants and a top for lunch. Not the best idea to go to the woods like that.
We both get some cargo pants, T-shirts, warm jackets, army boots, and a few accessories people usually need while hunting, including hunting knives.
You never know when you’ll get an opportunity, and McAllister said no weapons on his property, so we left our guns at home, except the sidearm Ares has in the car.
As soon as we are back outside, Ares takes my elbow and guides me towards the tree line, approximately a half mile from the stable. “Walk normally and smile occasionally like I’m saying something charming.”
“Don’t you always say something charming?” I laugh, leaning toward him as if I’m captivated by him. Okay, maybe not just as if… “Do you think they have cameras everywhere?” I ask, looking at the forest.
“Yes, they’re everywhere around his property. But there are blind spots in the forest. Too many trees for complete coverage and too wide terrain.”
We keep whispering to each other like we're telling sweet nothings until we pass a tree line and move into the pine forest that covers the mountainside.
The smell of resin and damp earth replaces McAllister’s controlled environment as Ares leads me along a narrow trail between thick trunks.
Only after we’ve walked for fifteen minutes and we haven’t spotted any cameras for a while does he stop, turning to face me with an expression I recognize all too well.
It’s something I suspect I won’t enjoy.
“You need to leave,” he repeats what he said last night in the room, when I didn’t even want to pay attention to his words. Only now, he’s much more serious. “Tonight, you take the car and drive back to Seattle. We say it’s a medical emergency.”
“The hell if I’m leaving,” I spit back, rage, taking control of my senses. “We’re here for a reason. We.”
“Fucking listen to me, I think we’re in danger,” he continues, ignoring my objection. “I can handle it—whatever it is, but I need to keep you safe.”
“Keep me safe?” I repeat, like I haven’t heard things right. “After everything we’ve been through. After taking you on in Kharon, you still think I’m so fragile that I need protection?”
His jaw tightens, muscles pulsing beneath his skin.
“This isn’t about your capabilities. It’s about what I’ve seen in McAllister’s eyes.
The way the others watch us. I have a bad feeling about this.
” He steps closer, lowering his voice, though no one could possibly hear us this deep in the forest. “They know what you mean to me.”
“And what exactly do I mean to you?” I challenge, refusing to back away. “Am I your possession? Your weakness? Your liability?”
“You’re my—” he stops, and I can see the frustration in his gaze. “You’re important. They’ll use that against me.”
“So will I,” I counter. “They underestimate me. That’s our advantage.”
“Brynn.” My name in his mouth, sounds like both plea and command. “There’s something happening here. Something we need to understand.”
“Then let’s try to get to the bottom of this together instead of shutting me out.”
His expression hardens, like it’s difficult for him to make this concession. “I won’t kill McAllister. I’ll bring him to you. You’ll get your answers about Elias. But I need you away from here before the hunt begins.”
The mention of Elias’ name sparks the grief, the rage, and the guilt always living inside me. “I didn’t come this far to watch from the sidelines while you play hero.” I take a step backward. “I’m staying. And I’m hunting.”
“Brynn.”
I don’t answer. I’m already moving, sprinting deeper into the forest while branches create a natural labyrinth that swallows me within seconds.