thirty -Brynn-
thirty
-Brynn-
I hit the ground on my back, the arrow tearing through muscle as it lodges near my collarbone.
My screams die in my throat, my teeth sinking into my lower lip until I taste blood, and for a second, I start to think I’m gonna die myself as my whole world narrows to a single point of excruciating pain.
But through the haze, I see Benedict reloading. He’s not even rushing, confident that I’m going nowhere, like a fucking predator, savoring his moment of triumph.
The bastard just doesn’t realize the pain only makes me angrier.
The arrow from my shoulder hurts with every breath, and I roll behind the boulder as another arrow splinters a tree where my head was a second ago.
Benedict is taking his time, enjoying the hunt, confident that his wounded prey has nowhere to go.
Blood slicks my entire left side now, saturating my jacket. I clamp my teeth against the pain and force myself to think through the fog. I’m not dead yet. Not beaten.
I hear Benedict splash into the river with a clear target in sight—me. The sound of water rushing around his legs grows louder as he approaches my hiding place.
My options narrow with each second. I know running is impossible. So is climbing with my wounded shoulder. All I have left is ambush.
Even the machete feels impossibly heavy in my hand as I grip it now. I know I’ll only get one chance. If I miss, I’ll probably die.
“I know you’re there,” Benedict calls, and his voice is too calm, too relaxed, as if we’re going out for drinks rather than to war. “McAllister said he preferred you alive. But I’m considering keeping you as my trophy.”
His steps crunch on the riverbank gravel closer and closer. So fucking close that I can smell the expensive cologne he still wears.
My vision blurs as I shift positions, black dots dancing in my eyes. Blood loss. Shock. I blink hard, forcing my eyes to open and focus.
His feet appear at the edge of the boulder. I count his steps as he circles my hiding place, timing my attack before he gets a chance to.
Now.
I launch from behind the boulder, swinging my machete toward his legs.
My blade connects with his thigh, splitting flesh, and he howls like a wounded dog, stumbling backward.
I try to use my advantage and finish him while he’s still down, but the sudden movement causes the arrow shaft to snap against the boulder, the wooden length breaking off with a crack that reverberates through my entire body.
The barbed head remains buried in my shoulder, grinding against my bones with each movement until blinding pain drops me to my knees.
Benedict recovers before I do. His blood spreads across his torn pant leg. His face contorts with fury as he tosses the empty crossbow aside and draws a hunting knife from his belt. "You'll pay for that," he snarls, all pretense of refinement gone. "I'll skin you alive before I'm done."
I scramble backward, one hand pressed against my wounded shoulder, the other still gripping the machete, though my fingers have gone numb. Then my back hits a tree, halting my retreat.
Benedict advances, his eyes never leaving mine as he closes the distance between us.
With a desperate surge, I push myself upright and lunge into the undergrowth, abandoning stealth for speed.
The dense forest swallows me as I start running through branches that whip against my face, and roots that threaten to trip me with each step.
I need to find shelter, find an advantage, then strike again.
But before I know it, Benedict's weight slams into me from behind, driving me to the ground.
The impact forces what little air remains from my lungs and gets the machete to spin from my grasp, landing just beyond reach.
"End of the game," Benedict hisses, flipping me onto my back, his knees pinning my arms to the ground. His knife presses against my throat, the cold steel promising nothing but death. Blood from his wounded thigh drips onto my stomach. "I'll tell Ares how you screamed before I finished you."
I stare up at him, refusing to give him the satisfaction of fear. If I'm to die, I'll die as myself, not as the whimpering prey he wants me to be.
"You've already lost," I whisper, my voice steady despite the blade against my jugular, while trying to reach the knife in my pocket without him noticing. "You’ll die either way."
Benedict laughs. "You think your god will kill me? He’s just waiting for his death, chained and—"
The rest of his sentence doesn’t register as something huge and dark breaks the trees behind him. One moment Benedict is above me, knife ready for the killing stroke; the next, he's simply gone, ripped away with such speed and force that I'm left staring at empty air.
A roar shatters through the night, making me push myself up onto my good elbow, squinting through the darkness at what’s happening in front of me.
Ares holds Benedict by his throat, the bastard’s feet dangling a foot above the ground.
This isn't the Ares I know. It’s something else, something darker.
His skin ripples with black veins. His muscles have swelled to impossible proportions, tearing through what remains of his t-shirt.
And his eyes are black voids, endless pools, reflecting nothing of the moonlight that bathes the clearing of trees he just made around him.
Benedict's scream is cut short as Ares tightens his grip. The sound of his vertebrae cracking echoes through the trees, but Ares doesn't stop there. With a casual move, he rips Benedict's right arm from its socket.
The sound of flesh tearing, then the crack of bone separating, is like a song to my revenge.
Benedict's mouth opens in a silent scream, his brain unable to process the horror being inflicted on his body as Ares tosses the severed limb aside and reaches for the other arm.
I should look away. Normally, a human being would look away, unable to watch. But I can't tear my eyes from the punishment this bastard deserves.
Benedict's left arm joins his right on the forest floor. His legs follow, ripped from his torso with the same terrifying ease. Blood soaks the ground, turning dirt to red mud beneath Ares' feet.
Through it all, Benedict somehow remains conscious, clinging to his last moments of life as his torso hangs limply in Ares's grasp while his eyes are wide with incomprehensible agony.
The final mercy, if it can be called that, comes when Ares grips the man's head between his massive hands and twists, separating it completely from the body and keeping it in his hand like some grotesque trophy.
For a moment, Ares stands motionless, Benedict's severed head dangling from his grip, the body parts scattered around him in a show of carnage.
Then, he slowly turns toward me and starts walking.
Benedict's head drops from his fingers as he crouches before me, massive and terrible and so fucking perfect. His hand reaches toward my face, and I don’t even flinch. His thumb brushes my cheek, smearing blood—mine or Benedict's, I don't know. I don’t even care at this point.
"Little curse," he struggles to speak as his voice is deeper and rougher than I've ever heard it.
His gaze moves to my shoulder, to the broken arrow shaft and the blood still seeping from the wound.
The God of War kneels before me, covered in the blood of my enemies, and I see both the monster and the man I've come to love.
"You came," I whisper, unable to say more.
His blood-soaked hand finds mine, engulfing it completely. "I will always come for you," he answers, the amazing darkness in his eyes pulling me in, making me undeniably his.
But this isn’t over, and I know it. I don’t want it to be over.
I press my hand against my shoulder wound, my fingers slick with my blood, trying to hide the severity from Ares.
His transformation is receding, his muscles returning to merely impressive rather than impossible, the dark veins beneath his skin fading to faint traces.
But his eyes still hold that otherworldly darkness as he sniffs the air like a predator, head tilting slightly to catch sounds beyond normal human hearing.
"McAllister is close. He was tracking you," he says, his voice still rough with barely contained rage, “but you’re wounded.” He continues, looking at my shoulder.
My vision blurs again when I try to stand as the ground tilts beneath my feet. Ares reaches for me, but I wave him away. "I'm fine," I lie, trying to stand on my own. "Let's finish this."
He studies my shoulder and my leg for another moment, seeing right through my bullshit, but he knows I’m not going to give up.
Still, he decides to have things his way, scooping a hand beneath my legs and lifting me into his arms. "Don’t even try," he warns, knowing I was just getting ready to struggle in his grip and continue the chase on my own two feet.
I’m not going to be carried as some damsel in distress.
“On your back,” I point so that he will carry me there, like a wounded warrior, not like some lost princess.
He nods, then turns me around until my legs are around his waist and my good arm over his shoulder. I struggle to keep my weight at first, since my damn leg refuses to cooperate, but he brings a hand to his back, right beneath my ass, supporting me so firmly that I feel like I weigh nothing at all.
“McAllister, you better run, you pathetic loser, because no one is going to save you from me,” Ares calls, his voice echoing through the forest.
Then he starts walking, carrying me like I’m not even there. He moves through the forest like a ghost, his steps incredibly light despite our combined weight. He changes direction twice without explanation, following signs I can’t pick up on.
The trees begin to thin as we climb higher, the ridge revealing itself, rock by rock. Moonlight floods the landscape, making navigation easier but taking away our cover.
"McAllister!" Ares suddenly calls again, his voice echoing between the trees. "I smell your stench! I hear your heartbeat! Run! It will only make your death more satisfying!"