thirty-one -Brynn-
thirty-one
-Brynn-
Almost a month later
I’m in the middle of the living room, perched on a sofa and scrolling through my phone as I watch Ares go through some reports.
This time, he’s made no exception and won’t let me lift a finger until he's certain I’m fully healed.
It has been a version of my worst nightmare.
Especially now that my shoulder is better, my leg as well.
Still, he insists that after my two whole weeks in bed, I should only make minimal effort…
Not that he can keep his promise every night.
At least, we made progress. Four days ago, he started taking me along with him to Elysium, keeping me on a couch and only allowing me to stand when I have to use the bathroom.
I don’t blame him, though. Last time I didn’t rest my leg, it nearly got me killed.
So, despite my slow descent into insanity, I can’t do anything but wait until I’m better.
He promised he’d let me run a few of his businesses, maybe even start a little project of my own.
I had no real ambitions before I met him, except to avenge Elias and just...
survive. But now I want to do things. To create something of my own.
I’m seriously considering starting an agency where people can come when just going to the police isn’t an option anymore.
People whose cases have been sitting on desks for months without any answers.
I’ve talked to Ares about it, and he’ll give me the help of the men 404 is still training under one condition: it won’t affect the time I spend with him. Because he wants me all to himself.
Suddenly, the main door opens, and a couple of guys start carrying cardboard boxes into the house, guided by one of Ares men, Ian.
“Careful with that one,” Ian gives the order as one of the workers almost drops a box.
“What the fuck?” I hear Ares roar, though before he gets a chance to send them away, I’m already behind him, catching a glimpse of a leather jacket I bought with my first paycheck.
I walk to the box, ignoring the men, including Ares, and look inside. Three mismatched coffee mugs—mine. I look at Ares, who, at this point, curses between his teeth. He knows now it’s useless to try to stop me. It would have only made me more curious.
And as I look outside, I see a few more men carrying boxes.
“You idiots, I said the fucking warehouse,” Ares growls, punctuating the words, ready to tear the men apart.
I look behind me, and his massive frame is backlit by the afternoon sun falling from a window, his warrior braids warmer in this light, framed by a ring of fire, which shows off his true nature.
I love it when he’s mad. Makes my core tighten, and my panties dampen in anticipation.
“I’m sorry, sir. Vince told Andrew, who told me to have things delivered here,” Ian apologizes, probably praying by now he’ll make it out alive after this mistake.
Ares looks at me with disappointment in his gaze, like he knows there’s no sense in sending the boxes away now.
“What’s all this?” I ask, looking at the mountain of boxes waiting outside.
Ares comes close to me, almost hesitant, like he's figuring out what to say to me. “Your things... and Elias’. What’s left of them, anyway.”
Truth is, I haven’t even bothered with my rent. I told Ares a couple of times I should go pay it, but he said he had things handled.
“I know they’re my things. What I don’t understand is what they’re doing here.”
“You mentioned once you need your hair straightener,” he shrugs as if he hadn’t already bought me one the second I opened my mouth.
“Yeah, well, this isn’t just a hair straightener…” I stop, letting him feel in the gaps.
“I thought maybe you needed something else,” he shrugs again, like for any other object I needed, one didn’t magically appear out of nowhere, or he didn’t have a man grab it the next second.
“What’s going on?” I press, knowing he’s deflecting.
But he responds with a laugh that sounds like some sort of okay, I give up.
“You, idiot, get the rest of the things into the house,” his signals Ian, then turns to look at me. “Get your shoes on. I have something I want to show you.”
“Another surprise besides my hair straightener. I don’t think my poor heart can handle it.”
“Are you coming, or not?” he mutters, already at the door.
At least something interesting is happening, and he’s letting me out of the house.
I rush to put on my sneakers and a jacket, then follow him outside, where he waits for me to help me down the stairs. I don’t need help anymore, but if it makes him feel better, okay…
He opens the passenger door, and I can’t help but internally smile, knowing he’s much more gentle with me than he is with anyone else on this planet.
“Where are we going?” I ask as he starts the engine.
“You’ll find out when we get there,” he says, like this is some big secret and I’m not gonna find out anyway.
I don’t ask again because I know him well enough by now. He won’t answer. As we drive through the street, I start recognizing buildings. This is the path of my old life, to the apartment I shared with Elias after we escaped.
Are there any boxes left? I don’t really understand.
But as we drive to my old apartment building, I notice a very big change.
Crumbling brick used to cover the whole exterior.
Now it seems recently renovated with fresh red brick.
New windows, too, and polished mirrors in the front entrance.
The metal door, perpetually hanging off its hinges, has been replaced by glass double doors.
Ares parks directly in front, right next to a no-parking sign that he ignores. I’ve noticed that when it comes to him, doing the wrong thing is some kind of guilty pleasure.
But this is different. And I’m not stupid. “You bought it?” I ask, realizing this is too much of a coincidence.
I push the car door open before he can reach it. I’m not willing to be treated like an invalid despite my wounds.
We find ourselves side-by-side, staring up at the newly transformed building.
“Why?” I ask, my voice shakier than I planned.
“Let’s go inside,” he says, taking my hand, guiding me up the stairs, slow enough so I can follow.
Everything inside has been renovated, the linoleum floor has been replaced with tile, and the place is much brighter than it used to be. But something catches my eye. Right beside the elevator, which now actually works, since I see the lights going up. A small bronze plaque.
My breath stops as I read the engraving:
HELL’s HEAVEN
In memory of Elias Richardson
My knees threaten to buckle, and tears build in my eyes. “What is this place now?” I manage to ask, but my voice is hoarse from holding back.
“A refuge,” he simply says, “for people who have nowhere else to go. Abandoned teens. Single mothers. People desperate for a second chance.”
I stare at him like I’m trying to fully process the information, trying to understand what the man before me—the God of War who ripped a man limb by limb in front of me less than a month ago—has to do with anything that he’s describing.
“Why?” I ask again since it seems the only word my stunned brain can produce right now.
“The previous tenants have been relocated to better accommodations,” he continues as if he didn’t hear me. “Some of them initially refused to leave, but I can be very persuasive… and generous,” he finishes, so I won’t get the wrong idea.
“That’s not what I’m asking.”
He sighs, tilting his head like he’s trying to find a way to say this to me without sounding too mushy.
“You mentioned that this is where you came with Elias after you escaped. That it felt similar to home. I thought it’s fitting that it should continue to serve that purpose for others,” he says it so quickly, like it’s a poem he memorized word for word.
But my throat still tightens. I can’t speak. I can’t even nod. I just stand there, staring at the plaque again, while the weight of what Ares has done settles over me.
“Do you want to see the rest?” he asks, his voice so controlled that I can see through his bullshit. He doesn’t want to show any kind of emotion.
Still, I nod, my own voice is not stable enough right now.
We take the elevator to the fourth floor, where my old apartment used to be, and the door slides open. I brace myself for a rush of memories. But it’s something entirely new. The walls have been knocked down to create a large common area with a few desks, computers, and bookshelves.
“It’s a job training center,” he explains. “Resume building, basic computer skills, GED preparation. There’s a small staff that rotates through. All volunteers except the director.”
A few people look up from the computers as we pass. A teenage girl with dyed blue hair, an older man with work-beaten hands, a woman about my age with a sleeping toddler in her lap.
We continue with the third floor, which houses a communal kitchen and a dining area filled with people who chop vegetables and knead dough.
“Meal service three times a day,” Ares says. “The residents take turns cooking. They’re building skills, community.”
“Building community,” I repeat, testing the phrase because it definitely sounds weird coming from Ares’ mouth, like this is a trap that will send everyone to hell or maybe make them agree to some kind of pact with the devil.
But he ignores my skepticism, only leading me to the second floor. “It’s not finished down here yet. That’s why I didn’t want to bring you. I wanted to show you when this was all completed, but those idiots forced my hand.”
I smile, realizing the power I have over a god.
“This is going to be an area for counseling,” he continues. “Mental health, substance abuse, career guidance, legal aid... whatever.”
“And the other apartments?” I ask. “The ones that weren’t converted?”
“Housing. Temporary for most, until they manage to get a job and a place of their own. But there’s no set limit as long as we see that they’re trying.”
He then leads me back to the elevator, and I find myself reevaluating everything I thought I knew about him. Every cruel word, every act of violence. They still exist. But now they exist alongside this. A memorial to a man he never met, created for the woman who came into his life to destroy him.
The elevator opens directly onto the roof, and I can’t believe the transformation.
It used to be nothing but tar paper and cigarette butts.
Now it’s a garden suspended above the city.
A small greenhouse overflows with herbs and vegetables on one side, and on the other side, different decorative plants meant to survive the winter, like a small garden.
And beyond it all, the city stretches to the horizon.
I stop, looking around me and thinking how similar this building is to my life. “This is where I came when things became too much. Looking for a solution that seemed like it would never come.”
“It came,” he whispers, then walks to the edge of the roof, where a glass barrier provides safety without obstructing the view. And for a second, I don’t understand how I ended up here. Not on this rooftop, but in this new life. How did I end up having so many things when I used to have nothing?
I follow him. The wind is stronger than I remember, but it’s winter.
I know I’m supposed to thank him. But how do I begin to thank someone for this? For everything? What words exist to acknowledge such a gesture from a being who has walked through centuries of blood?
For the first time in my life, I feel useless and clumsy.
“The garden was one of the first volunteers ideas. Along with the urban agriculture project. They use the vegetables for their meals, and the director I hired will get funds and organize charities for this.”
“You’ve changed…” I finally say, my voice so quiet it almost disappears into the wind. “I never expected…. this… from you.”
He turns to look at me. “Expected what? Investment properties? I have many.”
“No.” I shake my head, pushing away his deflection. “This, as in all of it. What you created here. What it really means.”
A muscle in his jaw twitches. “It’s just a building.”
“It’s not, and you know it. You made this for him. For what he meant to me.”
He looks away, but I can see his shoulder stiffen beneath his jacket. “I made it for you. I would do anything for you.”
I walk to stand beside him at the glass barrier, wrapping my arms around him as I look down at the city, at the cars threading through the streets, the lights flickering on in apartment windows as darkness gathers.
“Thank you,” I whisper, even though the words feel insufficient, even pathetic in front of everything.
“Don’t get any ideas. I’m still essentially evil,” he says with a dark smile.
“Of course, you are. Wouldn’t want you any other way,” I agree, matching his smile. “Thoroughly evil. The garden is clearly just to lure victims to their doom.”
“Exactly,” he nods, keeping a serious poker face. “Some of the herbs are poisonous.”
I smile again, leaning my head against his shoulder, watching the last ray of light disappear between the other buildings.
The air between us feels different now, charged not just with the usual tension of desire and danger.
Something else. Something that has been between us for a while, and I don’t want to fully admit it.
Yes, I did say I love him, but this takes things to a whole new intensity.
Because it’s vulnerability. The face of the man who exists behind the myth he’s created of himself.
There is something different between us. A recognition I’m beginning to understand that requires no acknowledgment. We are both more and less than what we pretend to be. Both haunted by a past. Both trying, in broken ways, to build something from the ruins. Together.
And for me, that’s enough.