Page 17 of Inked Desires

AReS

There he is. Lying still. Pale. Eyes closed. Countless needles and wires are attached to his body, while a ring of bluish bruises wraps around his neck like a macabre necklace. He looks so weak. So fragile.

I want to cry. Not because he’s lying there. Not because of the visible marks on his body. But because he’s alive. He’s fucking alive.

I take a hesitant step forward, afraid that touching him might somehow worsen his pain. Is he hurting? I wish he would open his eyes. I want to hear his voice—just once. I need to know this isn’t some illusion. Maybe I’m still on the plane, dreaming he made it out. And if I am, I don’t ever want to wake up.

A hand lands on my shoulder, pulling me back into reality. The fingers tighten slightly, grounding me. I turn my head.

Agent Robert Davis stands behind me, a flicker of something like compassion in his gaze. He moves closer, eyes resting on the man sleeping in the hospital bed.

“The embedded nurse was a traitor,” Davis says. “He waited for the right moment to reveal himself and tip off Benton. While we were arresting his men, he slipped away and made it into the room.”

I stare at him, stunned. I wasn’t expecting that kind of honesty. Usually, getting answers takes forever—especially for someone like me, a civilian who technically isn’t even supposed to be in this room.

“He doesn’t remember us,” Davis continues. “The doctors believe it’s dissociative amnesia. He thinks it’s still 2015.”

Amnesia. Fuck. Maybe that’s for the best. Maybe he won’t remember the abuse, the pain, everything he’s endured.

“Why are you telling me all this?” I ask, wary.

The agent takes a deep breath before answering.

“Because I want you to leave—and let him go. If he doesn’t remember anything, it’ll be easier for him to disappear. We don’t know where Jace is, and he’ll be safer with no familiar faces around.”

I’m supposed to walk away from him. Leave him here. Is that really the right thing to do?

It would take just a few steps to reach his hand. He needs someone. Andrew needs someone by his side.

But I’m a walking landmine. Benton knows he lived with me. He knows where my shop is. He’ll never be safe near me. I’d have to stay awake every night, gun in hand, ready to defend him. How many nights could I hold out before my guard slipped? Not enough. Benton doesn’t leave loose ends.

I run a hand through my hair, the weight of defeat crashing down again.

“I’ll trust you. I’ll leave,” I say. “But if I find out he’s not safe, I’ll come back—and I’ll hunt you down. Are we clear?”

The agent nods, lips pressed into a hard line.

“It’s the right call, soldier. Maybe one day he’ll remember you. But right now, his ignorance is the only thing protecting him,” he replies calmly.

I nod in return. I brush his hand off my shoulder and step closer to the bed. My hands tremble. Carefully, I take Andrew’s hand in mine. He doesn’t move. His fingers are ice-cold. I brush a lock of hair off his forehead. His skin is rough and cold—it cuts straight through me.

I lean down, fighting the overwhelming urge to scoop him up and run. I want to hide him, keep him all to myself, make sure no one ever touches him again.

With a heavy heart, I press a final kiss to his forehead.

“I spent a lifetime searching for someone like you,” I whisper, so soft I doubt I even heard myself. “So don’t you dare think I’m leaving you behind.”

And then I let go. My heart stays behind, raw and exposed, as I turn my back and walk away, hoping life will finally be kinder to him.

The pain in my chest dulls everything else. I fight not to break down. I refuse to look Davis in the eye—I don’t want to see pity. He can’t possibly understand. Andrew and I are bound by a darkness no one else could comprehend.

“What happened?” I hear his hoarse voice behind me.

I freeze in the doorway. Hearing his voice rips me apart. It makes me want to stay. But deep down, I know I have to go.

It takes every ounce of strength I have to move forward and leave that room.

Out in the hallway, the world feels unreal. Two nurses chat over coffee, a doctor scribbles notes into a chart, and an old woman wanders by in her robe. But I see it all from the edge of my awareness. My mind is still in that room, imagining an Andrew who remembers me, who forgives me.

I reach the waiting room where my team sits lined up on cheap plastic chairs. They look up as I approach.

“How is he?” Kiran asks.

“I’ve got nothing to say,” I answer, slipping back into my usual tone.

“You staying?” Connor asks.

“No. We’re going home.”

Kiran stands and places his hands on my shoulders.

“What happened?”

“He’s fine. Let’s go,” I say, shutting it down.

I shrug off his hands and head for the exit. I know they’ll follow.

When we reach the car, Kiran unlocks the doors. This time, no one has to shove me in. I get in the passenger seat and stare out the window as the city rolls by.

“You were so desperate to get here, and now you’re ready to leave?” Kiran says, fishing for answers.

I stay silent, eyes fixed on the passing streets.

“Oh, hell no,” he snaps. “You’re not turning into that brooding hermit again. Don’t undo all the work Andrew did on your fucked-up personality.”

Annoyed, I slam the back of my head against the headrest. Can’t he just shut the fuck up? I don’t want to talk to him—or anyone else. Why do people always feel the need to talk about their feelings? I’m not some fragile loser. All I need is a bottle of whiskey and a deserted place to think. Then I’ll be back in the game.

“Ares, I’m talking to you. You owe us answers. I got you a weapon, I rallied the whole team—you don’t get to shut down now,” a voice growls beside me.

I sigh and finally turn to him. I could knock him out cold with one well-placed punch—but we’d probably crash the car, and I really don’t need that right now.

“Andrew doesn’t remember me,” I say at last. “He’s alive. He made it. And if he wants to stay alive, it’s better if he keeps forgetting.”

“Shit,” my best friend mutters.

Yeah. That about sums it up.

“We could protect him,” Travis says from the backseat.

I meet his eyes in the rearview mirror—he’s dead serious.

“No,” I reply sharply. “Benton knows my shop. He knows we’re connected. No one knows where that psycho is right now. Where do you think he’d look first?”

“At your place,” Kiran admits, nodding.

I turn back to the window. That’s it. End of discussion.

“We’ll have to keep an eye on the shop anyway. Even if Andrew’s not with you, he might come looking,” Kiran adds, not letting go.

“I don’t need babysitters,” I growl. “I can handle that fucker myself. Let him come.”

“We look out for each other, A.C.,” Kiran reminds me—an old promise, long past.

“We’re not at war anymore,” I snap, irritated. “You’ve all rebuilt your lives—go back to them. I’ll handle mine.”

They exchange a look. Great. I lost. No matter what I say, they’ll end up watching me from the shadows. No point in arguing further. I rub my temples, exhausted. All of this is so fucking draining. Sometimes I catch myself wishing someone would just put a bullet in me—just to make it all stop.

“Do whatever the hell you want,” I mutter. “Just so we’re clear—I didn’t ask for it.”

Finally, silence. I take a deep breath, grateful. I focus on the rhythm of my breathing, trying to push all thoughts away. I can’t afford to break down in front of them. I tense the muscles in my neck to force the emotion down. I won’t stop until I’ve dealt with Jace. That’s my only mission. And that bastard will show his face again—especially when he finds out Andrew is still alive.

The silence lasts until we reach my studio. I recognize the neighborhood like the back of my hand, but without Andrew, it all feels cold and distant. The studio doesn’t feel like home anymore. It’s just a place.

“Thanks, guys,” I mutter as I step out of the car, desperate to get away from the suffocating atmosphere.

Connor and Travis nod from the back seat. I open the shop door and go inside. Through the glass, I see Kiran still parked, while the others drive off. Of course—they’re probably staking out nearby. No one wants to let me handle this on my own.

And, of course, Kiran doesn’t wait long before walking in after me.

“You’re not going to leave me alone, are you?” I ask, more out of habit than actual curiosity.

“Nope,” he says, shrugging.

I shake my head and hold back a snide comment. As much as it pisses me off, I know a lost cause when I see one. Doesn’t mean I’m giving up the fight.

“How’d you get the guys together so fast?” I ask, changing the subject.

“The moment you asked me for intel on Benton, they were already on standby,” he explains. “They’ve been around from the start. I had a bad feeling.”

I give him a nod. That explains a lot. Probably why Benton hasn’t stormed in yet.

“What are you gonna do now?” Kiran asks.

I drop into the chair behind my desk. My unfinished sketch is still sitting there. Maybe this time I can finally get back to it.

“Wait,” I say, grabbing my pencil.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Kiran perch on the edge of the desk. He watches me draw in silence—which doesn’t bother me. He used to do the same thing back when we were deployed.

“You gonna keep bottling it all up, or are you actually gonna talk about it?” he eventually asks, breaking the quiet.

I roll my eyes toward the ceiling. Does he really know me that little?

“Do I look like I’m in the mood for coffee and a heart-to-heart?” I snap.

My best friend rolls his eyes right back at me.

“Could be an option. Or we crack open a bottle of whiskey and you tell me what the hell’s going on,” he offers.

“No need, Kiran,” I cut him off coldly.

“Fine. Then let’s sit here in total silence,” he mutters, giving up.

“Thank you,” I grumble, focusing again on the wildflowers taking shape under my pencil.

I’m nearly done when he starts drumming his fingers on the desk. That damn noise drives me insane. He knows it too. Sometimes, he’s worse than my own mother.

“Who’s the drawing for?” he finally asks, unable to keep his mouth shut.

“Andrew,” I admit without looking up.

Originally, I planned to use the flowers to cover the scar on his back.

“You think he’s coming back?” he jumps on the chance to ask.

“No,” I reply flatly.

“Then why draw it?”

I sigh and glance up. That’s the question. The one that says it all. The idea had come to me and refused to let go. At first, I’d hoped Andrew would come back. That we could talk, fix things. Now, for his own good, I want him far away from this studio. Far away from me.

“What else do I have to do?” I throw back as a deflection.

“We could talk,” he insists again.

I toss my pencil on the desk.

“What do you want to talk about, Kiran?”

A sly grin spreads across his face, and those slightly pointed canines flash.

“Let’s talk about Andrew.”

“What do you want to know? If I’m hurting? If I hate everything and everyone right now?”

“Sounds like a decent place to start,” he says with a nod.

I press my forehead into my hands, right on the edge. I’m seconds from begging him to leave. I don’t want to talk—because that would mean facing everything swirling inside me. And it’s easier to just shove it all down.

“Sorry, Kiran. I don’t even know how I feel,” I say, standing up.

I leave him in the studio and head upstairs to the apartment. I make sure to lock the door behind me—just in case he tries to follow. If he keeps pushing me, I will snap his neck. Even if he means well. Even if he’s worried. I can’t deal with that right now. I can’t even deal with myself.

When I reach the bedroom, I finally find a sliver of peace. For the first time in hours, I’m alone. I collapse onto the bed. His scent still lingers faintly in the air—like a memory hanging on by a thread. I wish it would stay forever, that it could trick me into thinking he’s still here. But I know it’s only a matter of time before it fades. Just like I know that Andrew and I… we were never meant to last. We only got a brief moment. A pause in the chaos. A glimpse of something like happiness.

Now, the only thing that matters is his future. And for that to exist, I need to take that bastard down.

Hopefully, it won’t take long for him to resurface. The FBI’s on his ass—he’ll have to flee the country fast. Maybe he’ll slip up. That’s my shot.

I stare at the white ceiling, counting my breaths, but it doesn’t help. My chest is heavy. My eyes burn. Everything feels so final.

I already miss him.

All I can do is hope that with time… it’ll hurt a little less.