Whispered Thoughts
Charlotte
By the time we reach the nearest hotel, the rain is still coming down in a steady downpour.
The place is small and tucked beside a narrow road with a flickering sign. It is not the sort of hotel an Arden would usually choose, which is precisely why I say nothing about it. At this point, dry walls and hot water are enough to earn my loyalty.
Ares parks near the entrance and gets out without a word, grabbing both our bags from the trunk.
I follow, pulling my damp coat tighter around myself as we cross the car park. Mud clings to my boots, my hair is damp, my outfit is ruined, and Ares looks no better. His jeans are torn where the ladder scraped his leg, the bloodstain still obvious.
The receptionist looks up when we step inside, her eyes running over us both, and a familiar wariness enters them. We probably look as though we have crawled out of a hole, which we pretty much have.
Ares approaches the desk. “Room.”
I close my eyes briefly. What is he, two?
The woman blinks. “Sorry?”
“A room,” he repeats.
“With two beds, or two separate single bedrooms”, I add smoothly, stepping beside him before he can sound any more like an escaped criminal or an uncivilised caveman. “Please.”
Ares glances at me, but I ignore him.
“We have a twin room,” she says. “That’s the only one available.”
“It’ll do,” Ares replies instantly.
I glance at him, and he looks straight ahead, jaw set, shoulders broad and rigid beneath his wet jacket.
The receptionist takes the money he puts down and gives us a key, and tells us our room is upstairs at the end of the corridor. I thank her. Ares makes a noise that could possibly be gratitude, but sounds more like a dishevelled dog wanting to bite someone’s head off.
We head up in silence; it feels awkward. Both of us are very aware that we are about to share a room. One room. Two beds.
It’s perfectly normal on missions, and practical for safety reasons, which is exactly why I refuse to overthink it, and yet I can’t seem to stop thinking.
Ares unlocks the door and steps inside first, flicking on the light. The room is plain but clean, with beige walls, heavy curtains, a small desk, a narrow wardrobe, and two single beds separated by a bedside table.
I stare at the two beds; they’re practically joined, separated by a mere handspan. It’s literally a single room with two tiny beds cramped into it.
“Problem?” he asks.
“No.”
“You looked at the beds.”
“They are quite difficult to miss.”
“There are two.”
“I can count, Westwood.”
“Good. Just checking the Arden education wasn’t all table manners and judging people.”
I turn to him slowly. “Would you like me to demonstrate one of those table manners by politely telling you to shut up?”
His mouth almost twitches. “You can try.”
I step past him into the room, refusing to let him see that his near-smile is more distracting than it has any right to be.
The warmth hits properly once the door shuts behind us. I want out of these clothes immediately. I want hot water, soap, and at least ten minutes where nothing smells like old blood, tunnel rot or Ares Westwood standing too close.
“I’m showering first,” I say.
“Fine.”
“What? Really? You’re not going to fight me on it?”
“Get in there before I change my mind,” he growls.
I reach for my bag, but Ares is already lifting it from where he dropped it by the door. He hands it to me without comment, taking me by surprise. I hesitate for a moment before taking it; our fingers brush, and I notice it despite it being so fleeting.
His eyes flick to our hands, then to my face. Neither of us moves for half a second.
Then I take the bag properly and step back.
“Thank you,” I say.
His jaw tightens, as if the words have somehow inconvenienced him. “Don’t start being polite now. It’s weird.”
“You are impossible,” I reply, shaking my head before I enter the bathroom, not waiting for a reply.
The shower feels incredible. Hot water runs over my skin, washing away the dirt. I scrub harder than necessary, as if I can remove the sight of those scratched walls, the old bloodstains, the rot, the mud – all of it.
The memories linger, but I feel better.
By the time I step out, the mirror is steamed up.
I dry quickly and pull on the only clean clothes I packed for sleeping.
Thin white trousers, soft and clinging slightly from the steam, and a fitted white top with long sleeves.
Clean, simple fabric that feels like heaven after the drain water and cold.
I towel my hair as I open the bathroom door and see Ares re-enter. He must have left while I was showering. He puts down the paper bags he’s carrying onto the desk and places two takeaway cups beside them. The room fills with the smell of chips, grilled meat and coffee.
He turns when I come out, then stops. For one brief moment, Ares Westwood seems to have forgotten his usual attitude. His gaze drops before he can stop it.
Not like the man at the service station. It is quicker than that, sharper, almost unwilling. His eyes move from my damp hair to my face, then down over the white top and the soft trousers clinging lightly to my legs before snapping back up to my face.
His jaw clenches, and the room suddenly feels smaller.
I am fully dressed. Decently dressed. There is nothing remotely scandalous about what I am wearing.
That only makes his reaction more dangerous.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing.” He looks away first, turning back to the desk with unnecessary force as he starts pulling food from the bags. “I got dinner,” he mutters.
“I can see that. You found a place open at this hour?”
“It’s food; I’d find it at any time of the day or night. Besides, you didn’t eat enough earlier.”
“Sounds almost like you care, Westwood,” I remark with a taunting smirk.
Ares notices and glares at me. “I don’t. Eat. Don’t eat. I don’t care.”
I walk closer, still towel-drying my hair. His shoulders tense as I pass him, and I notice the way his eyes fix very deliberately on the food instead of me.
“You bought too much again,” I say dryly, although right now I am starved.
“You’re going to eat properly this time,” he replies.
“Are you always this controlling about food?”
“Only when people are stupid enough to go on missions half-starved.” There is no teasing in his voice now.
I look at him, but he does not look at me. Instead, he pushes one of the takeaway cups towards me.
“Tea,” he says.
I blink. “You bought me tea?”
“You’re British.”
“So are you.”
“Yeah, but I’m not one of those weirdos who needs tea and shit. You, on the other hand, look like the type who needs tea.”
I should be offended, but he’s not wrong.
I take the cup, fingers wrapping around the warmth. “Thank you.” He grunts in response. “You are truly terrible at accepting gratitude. But really, thanks.” I mean it, too.
His gaze flicks to mine. For a moment, the heat from the shower, the smell of food, the rain against the window and the soft hum of the radiator all seem to fold inward, pressing us into the same small, impossible space.
His eyes drop, but before I can assess where they went, he looks away and steps back immediately, dragging a hand through his damp hair.
“I’m showering,” he says.
“That would be wise.”
“Eat.”
“You keep saying that as though I take orders from you.”
“You do. I’m in charge.” He grabs his clean clothes from his bag and stalks into the bathroom and slams the door behind him.
The sound echoes through the room. I shake my head. What an interesting man. There’s definitely more to him than the growls and grumpiness.
I stand here in the middle of the cheap hotel room, barefoot, damp-haired, holding the tea he bought me, staring at the closed bathroom door.
For several seconds, I do not move. Then, despite myself, I smile.
Only because he cannot see it.
By the time he’s out in sweatpants and a fitted white tee, I’ve eaten enough that he doesn’t complain. He eats quickly, scrolling through his phone before the lights are turned off and both of us are lying in our separate beds.
I should be asleep already. I’m exhausted.
My body aches from hours of walking, my hair still slightly damp against the pillow. The pattering rain against the window and the warmth of the room should be enough to drag me under, yet sleep refuses to come.
The space between our beds feels even smaller now that we’re both in bed, and although we are not touching, Ares is close enough that I can hear every subtle movement he makes.
I turn onto my other side for perhaps the fourth time, and Ares exhales sharply.
“Can you stop moving?” he mutters.
I stare into the dark, my back still to him. “I’m barely moving. You complain like even breathing inconveniences you.”
“It does when you’re doing it loudly beside me.”
“I am not breathing loudly.”
“You’re thinking loudly then.”
I roll onto my back and glare at the ceiling, even though he cannot see me. “That is not a real thing.”
“With you, it is.”
The mature thing would be to ignore him. Instead, I turn my head towards him. He’s staring at the ceiling, all shadowed jaw, dark lashes and tousled hair pushed back from his forehead. He is lying on his back, too, one arm folded beneath his head, the other resting over his stomach.
He looks too large for the single bed; it would be amusing if it were not so distracting.
“I can’t seem to sleep,” I admit quietly.
For a moment, he says nothing. Then, softer than before, he murmurs, “Me neither.”
The honesty of it settles between us. Far more intimate than anything either of us has said tonight.
We fall silent again, but it is not the same silence as before. This one is tense in a different way, in a way I refuse to acknowledge.
It feels absurd.
I’m tired; I should be asleep. Instead, I’m lying awake in this cheap hotel room, listening to the rain and pretending I am not aware of every breath he takes.
I turn onto my side, facing him properly. After a second, he turns his head towards me.
“What?” he asks.
I study his face for a moment, wanting to distract myself from the fact that I am sleeping in a room with an annoyingly, infuriatingly handsome male.
“How was it? Fighting a god.”
His expression shifts slightly, leaving something heavier in its place.
He looks away, and for a heartbeat, I don’t think he is going to answer, but then Ares exhales, his eyes fixed on the ceiling again.
“It wasn’t like fighting a man,” he says quietly. “Or a beast, or anything with a body that is breakable… We only survived because another infuriating blond made a deal with Hades.”
I smile; Heaven’s the dark horse of that story, and that credit will also go down in the history books. I wait quietly for him to continue, refusing to disturb his train of thought until he is ready.
“Helios fought as if the world belonged to him because, in his head, it did. The light, the heat, the air, the ground beneath us. Everything obeyed him. Every time he moved, it felt like the sun itself had decided we weren’t worth existing.
And the worst part, he didn’t even look afraid, like he knew he was untouchable, and he was. ”
I remain still; this is the first time I’m hearing it firsthand.
“Theo was laughing with blood in his mouth. Carter went down hard and still refused to give up. Renji was burning and still kept at it. Jayce…” He pauses, and something unreadable passes over his face.
“Jayce kept getting up when he shouldn’t have even been able to stand.
Because for him it wasn’t just a duel… It was… her.”
He swallows. “So yeah… That’s what it was like. Watching my brothers get torn apart and knowing none of us could stop because if one of us stayed down, the rest would follow, and he would win, and that wasn’t an option.”
His voice is rougher now, stripped of the usual bite.
“And you?” I ask softly.
“I used everything I had. Water from the cracks, from the air, from wherever the fuck I could pull it. A disadvantage in Helios’ land.
But I kept trying. Jayce and I fought well together.
His lightning hit my water, and for a moment, it wasn’t his power or mine.
It was just this... storm, unleashing the full extent of our power.
It was... something else. As if on earth we were restricted to what our bodies could endure, but there it was different... ”
I can almost see it.
The arena. The gold. The burning. The brothers standing together against a god who believed himself untouchable.
Ares swallows, but his gaze does not soften.
“We didn’t win because we were stronger than him,” he says quietly. “We won because we were too stubborn to kneel. There’s a difference.”
The words settle inside me with an ache I do not expect. He turns his head slightly, meeting my eyes across the small space between our beds.
“And when the mark broke,” he continues, his voice dropping even lower, “it didn’t sound like victory. It felt like something that was never meant to break realising it could.”
A shiver runs through me. Not from cold but from the weight of those words.
I think of what he said earlier in the car. About mates being weaknesses. About attachments making men vulnerable. About running from the very thing most people spend their lives praying to find.
I understand it a little more now. I don’t agree, but I understand it.
“Were you afraid?”
His eyes harden immediately. “I wasn’t.”
I hold his gaze. “Liar.”
His brows draw together. I do not look away.
“Fear is not the same as cowardice,” I say, my voice quiet but steady.
“A coward runs before the fight begins. You stood there with your brothers while a god tried to burn you from existence, and you still chose to rise. That is not the absence of fear, Ares. That is courage. And I’ll regret it tomorrow, but your name suits you more than I’d like to admit. ”
He says nothing, but something in his face changes.
I should stop. But I don’t.
“And perhaps that is what truly scares you,” I continue, my heart beating a little too hard now.
“Not women. Not mates. Not love. But the fact that you already know what devotion can make you do, and you are terrified that one day there will be someone you would burn the world for without hesitating.”
The room goes utterly still.
Ares turns fully onto his side, then facing me properly across the narrow gap between our beds, his muscular arm bent beneath his head. His eyes catch the silver light from the window, sharp and guarded, but no longer distant.
Neither of us moves, and neither of us looks away, but neither of us utters another word.
And in the dark, with rain against the window and the space between us far too small, we lie there facing one another, staring into each other’s eyes as if one of us might finally say the thing neither of us is ready to voice.