Page 66 of Beneath Scarred Vows

After our first time, he carried me to the shower. The hot water cascaded over us as he washed me with gentle hands. He was careful of my wound, his fingers skimming around the bandage as if I might break.

Afterward, he sat me on the edge of the bed and replaced the bandages with new ones, applying more of that numbing cream.

I flex my arm now, testing it. The pain is there, but distant, manageable. Whatever it is, it's good stuff.

My favorite part of yesterday was that we never left the bedroom. For the rest of the day, Ares held me close, asking me what happened and calling me his hero, commending me for saving Calli.

His praise filled some empty space inside me I hadn't known was there. For so long, I'd been nothing but a burden, a problem to be solved. But in Ares's eyes yesterday, I was something valuable. Something worth protecting.

He had dinner brought to our room and a bottle of red wine that we shared in bed, all while feeding each other bites of food between kisses. After, he'd turned me onto my stomach, his strong hands working the tension from my shoulders, down my back, over my thighs.

"Relax," he said when I tensed at his touch near my scar. "Let me take care of you."

And I dad. I surrendered completely, letting him massage away the day's trauma until his touches had turned from soothing to heated, his hands finding places that made me gasp and arch against him.

We'd made love twice more after that—once slow and deep, his eyes never leaving mine; and then again in the early hours of the morning, half-asleep but desperate for each other, my legs wrapped around his waist as he took me with an urgency that spoke of possession.

I stretch now, wincing slightly at the tenderness between my legs. I'm no longer a virgin. No longer untouched. The thought brings no regret, only a strange sense of rightness. As if my body had been waiting for him all along.

I sit up, scanning the room. That's when I notice the folded piece of paper on the nightstand.

I reach over and pick it up. I see Ares's handwriting.

Katerina,

Know that I will always be searching for a world where I never have to leave our bed when you're in it, but until then, there's business that couldn't wait. You're safe. But someone won't be.

Stay in the house today. Chris will be around.

A.

P.S. You look good in my shirt. But much better out of it.

He doesn't say who won't be, but he doesn't have to. Someone hurt me. And Ares doesn't let that go.

Should I feel guilty that his threats don't scare me? That they almost make me feel safe?

What does that say about me?

I shake my head and force myself to move on.

I reread the P.S., a flush warming my cheeks despite being alone. The note is so perfectly Ares—commanding, threatening, and somehow tender all at once.

I trace my fingers over his initial, remembering how those same fingers had traced every inch of my body last night. How they'd held me steady when I shattered in his arms. How they'd wiped away tears I hadn't even realized I'd shed after my first time.

My phone buzzes on the nightstand, and I grab it, expecting to see Ares's name. Instead, it's Calli.

You up? Emma says you haven't had any breakfast yet. I'm going crazy cooped up in this house. I need to talk about what happened. Come down and keep me company? Ares says you can't leave, but he didn't say we couldn't raid the kitchen and watch movies all day.

I smile at her message. In the short time I've known her, Calli has become something I never expected to have again—family. Not by blood, but by something that feels just as comforting.

I type back:

Give me 20 minutes to shower. Save me some coffee.

Setting the phone down, I slide my legs over the edge of the bed and stand, steadying myself against the nightstand as my legs wobble slightly. I catch sight of myself in the mirror across the room and barely recognize the woman staring back.

My hair is a wild tangle around my shoulders, my lips slightly swollen from Ares's kisses. There are marks on my neck, my collarbone, and as I unbutton the shirt, the tops of my breasts—evidence of his passion. I should be embarrassed at the sight, at being so clearly marked as his.