Page 14

Chapter fourteen

~ARES~

Twenty minutes.

That’s how long I’ve been watching her. That’s how long she’s been with him.

Some tall, clean-cut-looking motherfucker. Perfect smile. Easy charm. Harmless. The exact opposite of me. And she’s fucking eating it up.

Twenty minutes of watching her lean in, tilt her head, and bat those gorgeous eyes at some blond piece of shit who doesn’t deserve to breathe the same air as her.

My grip tightens around my glass.

I thought I could push her away. I thought that if I let the puck bunnies cling to me, let them run their hands over my chest, purr in my ear, beg for my attention, she’d get the fucking message.

That this—whatever the fuck this is—can’t happen. But watching her now? Watching her with him? It’s fucking breaking me.

She knows I’m watching. And yet, she’s still sitting there, still letting that prick buy her drinks, still letting him believe he’s taking my girl home.

My teeth grind together as a hand slides over my chest. I barely register it at first. Then a sweet, sultry voice drags me back.

“Ares,” the brunette purrs, pressing her fake tits against my arm. “Let’s get out of here.”

When I don’t react, she presses in more, her breath hot and sticky against my neck. “I can suck your cock in the bathroom. Let you do whatever you want to me.”

Reluctantly, I peel my eyes away from Irene and look down at the woman with the dirtiest fucking look she can muster. I know how to get rid of girls like her. I’ve done it a million times, and I never get tired of the look in their eyes when I do.

“You ever heard of a butcher’s hook, sweetheart?” I ask, cocking a brow.

She blinks. Smiles. Runs her fingers lightly over my chest. “Mm, sounds kinky. Is that some kind of position?”

I laugh.

“No,” I murmur, leaning in, brushing my lips just shy of her neck. She tilts her head, inviting me in.

My mouth stops just at her ear. “It’s what I’d hang your desperation on if you keep fucking touching me.”

Her smile falters.

I don’t stop.

“I’m not interested. Not now. Not ever.” I let the words settle, razor-sharp and ice-cold. “So, unless you’re looking to get gutted in front of your friends, walk the fuck away.”

She freezes, her eyes wide. I can almost hear the gears turning as she processes what I just said.

And then she stumbles back, her hands up like she just realized I’m not the kind of guy you tease into bed.

“You’re fucking insane,” she snaps, shaken now.

“Guilty,” I agree, watching her turn and disappear into the crowd fast.

She won’t be back. They never are.

It’s not like I didn’t try to be polite. But girls like that? They don’t listen. The word no just doesn’t compute. So, I adapted.

Fear works. It gets the message across real fucking clear.

Which is good. Because I don’t want them.

I want her. I want the girl sitting at the bar with another man. The girl who’s driving me insane. The girl whose panties I still have, whose moans I can’t get out of my head. And right now, she’s flirting with somebody else.

My jaw locks, and my fingers clench.

She’s moving too close, she’s smiling too much, and he’s touching her.

My vision goes red as I exhale slowly and tell myself to stay where I am. To stay the fuck out of this. This is what has to happen. She needs to forget about me and find someone who’s…not me. So, why does it feel wrong? Why does it feel like it should be me she’s laughing with down there? Why do I feel like I need to kill someone?

Damien slides up next to me and follows my line of sight. Sees what I see—Irene with the clean-cut asshole.

“Looks like she found herself a new friend,” Damien hums, swirling his drink.

I don’t answer. Instead, I down my whiskey in one go and tap the bar twice. The bartender knows what I need. Because if I don’t keep my hands busy, I’m going to break something.

I watch as he pulls her onto the dancefloor, his hands sliding too low, his fingers pressing into her waist.

My fucking girl.

Then the fucker leans in to kiss her, and my entire body locks. My vision blurs, my stomach dropping. I see Irene pull back with an awkward smile and shakes her head no. She’s trying to be nice about it, but he doesn’t let go. His hand slides down her perfect ass and yanks her back toward him when she pushes at his chest, her smile dropping.

I stand, blind with rage.

“Uh-oh,” Damien exhales.

I don’t stay to hear anything else. Everything goes red as I move down the stairs and into the heart of the club. The crowd splits as I walk through, like fish parting for a shark.

I’m behind him before the bastard even senses me. I give his shoulder a single tap. The bastard stiffens before he turns his head, sees that he’s looking at my chest, and cranes his neck up to meet my eyes.

He scoffs. “What the fuck is your prob—”

Good-fucking-night.

I throw my fist, an uppercut to the jaw, and he’s unconscious before his limp body even hits the ground.

The music doesn’t even stop; the bass keeps thumping, and the lights keep flashing.

But the energy shifts. The people closest to us freeze and stare.

And then—screaming and commotion. The music is still thumping, but a few men rush to me, one of them screaming at the top of their lungs.

“ What the fuck, man! ”

I turn my head toward them, barely suppressing the rage still boiling inside me. The blond man’s friends rush forward, shouting, one of them crouching down to check on his unconscious buddy.

“We’re pressing charges!” he yells, pointing a shaking finger at me.

“Be my guest.” I don’t give a shit about charges. Or consequences. He touched her. That’s all I need to know.

The guy stares at me, gaping, but I don’t stick around for the fallout because I have something more important to deal with.

Her.

I turn, and Irene is still frozen, wide-eyed and shaken. And that makes my pulse hammer even harder.

She opens her mouth to say something, but I grab her before she gets a chance.

She gasps as I lift her right off the ground. Her hands push at my chest, struggling, but she doesn’t stand a chance.

“Ares, wait!”

I ignore her. I ignore everything as I carry her straight through the club, through the crowd that parts as I move.

The second I step into VIP, everyone turns. Livia’s already on her feet, her brows pulled tight.

“What the hell happened?” she demands.

I set Irene down on one of the couches and crouch in front of her. The team swarms us.

“Are you okay?”

“What happened?”

“Did that guy try anything?”

“Back the fuck up!” My voice is a whip crack. They all freeze and take a few steps back. I don’t yell often, but when I do, this is the reaction.

“Water. Now,” Rowan barks at the bartender.

A glass slides across the table. He grabs it and shoves it toward me. I take it, grip it tight, and press it into her hands.

“Drink.”

Irene swallows, fingers trembling around the glass. She hesitates. I don’t have the patience for hesitation right now.

“Please, drink,” I repeat myself, trying to soften my voice.

Her lips part, and this time, she listens. She takes a sip, and I exhale, some of the tension in my chest loosening. And then I lower my eyes down to her dress. The fabric is torn just above her thigh from where that bastard grabbed her and yanked her toward him.

Something inside me detonates.

I stand and turn, but Livia blocks me instantly.

“Oh, no,” she snaps, hands flat against my chest. “You already knocked him out once. That’s enough.”

“It’s not.” My voice is flat and deadly.

“No.”

I try to step around her.

“Jesus, Ares! Just stop and think for a second!” She shoves me back.

“I am thinking,” I grit out. “And all I’m thinking about is ripping that guy’s fucking spine out.”

“This is going great.” Damien sighs behind me.

Livia exhales sharply. Then, her voice softens just a fraction.

“I got this,” she says. “I’ll handle the press. I’ll make sure no one runs their mouth about this. But you? You need to cool the fuck off.”

My fingers flex at my sides, rage still clawing at my throat. Then I turn my head. Irene is still watching me. And I can’t…I can’t fucking look at her right now, or I’ll go back down the stairs and do exactly what I said I would.

I need out. I grit my teeth and turn to Livia.

“Watch her for me.”

And then I leave for the bathroom.

The second the door slams behind me, I snap. I punch the door, needing an outlet, a way to get rid of this aggression. Pain splinters through my knuckles, and blood drips onto the tile, sliding down my fingers.

Fuck.

I brace my hands against the sink, dropping my head and breathing hard.

Cold water. I need cold fucking water. I turn the tap on and shove my hands under it, watching the blood mix with the water as it swirls down the drain.

I glance up, and my reflection stares back. My eyes dark as hell, rimmed with rage.

The door opens behind me, but I don’t turn. I already know who it is.

Rowan steps up next to me, arms crossed. He doesn’t say anything at first. He just watches me, waiting.

“Livia will handle the press.” His voice is even and calm.

I say nothing.

“And for the record,” he exhales, “I don’t blame you.”

I grip the sink harder as he meets my gaze in the mirror.

“I would’ve done the same.”

“You have done the same.” I let out a short, bitter laugh.

“Yeah. And I don’t regret it either.” Rowan smirks.

I drag a hand down my face. The adrenaline is starting to wear off, leaving me feeling fucking wrecked. I don’t know what the hell I’m supposed to do with all of this.

But I do know this. No one else fucking touches her.

I’m standing on the balcony, cigarette between my fingers. My knuckles still sting, and my jaw is tight as I watch the city stretch out below me. I should be asleep. I should be cooling the fuck down, letting the rage burn itself out.

I should be done thinking about her.

But I’m not. She’s all I’ve been thinking about. The way she looked at me after I dropped that guy. She didn’t run. But she should have. She should have fucking bolted the second she saw me do that to him.

The tightness in my chest only grows, and it’s not from the fight. It’s the realization that I probably scared her away for good. Maybe that was my plan, deep down. Scare her off. Make her see that I’m too much. That I’ll always be too much. That I’m unworthy of someone like her. It’s what I do best.

But fuck, it hurts. The thought that I’ve made her see I’m too fucked up to be anything good for her, it stings. But I can’t say it surprises me. Everyone leaves. Everyone always leaves. I’m used to it by now. I can handle it, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t leave a mark.

The only reason I haven’t gone looking for her is that I know Livia is in her room next door. If she wasn’t? If Irene was alone? I don’t know if I’d be able to stay away.

I take another slow drag of my cigarette. The nicotine fills my lungs, but it doesn’t do shit to calm me down. I butt it out, pop a mint into my mouth, and step back inside just as someone knocks on my door. I exhale slowly, dragging a hand through my hair, expecting Rowan and Damien.

But as soon as I pull the door open, I freeze.

Irene.

Still in that dress, still looking at me with those big brown eyes. The sight of her alone is enough for my heart to skip, yet I keep my face neutral. Is she here to tell me how I messed up? Yell at me? Tell me I’m a fuck-up?

She doesn’t say anything at first, and neither do I, waiting for the shoe to drop.

She swallows, shifts her weight, and lifts something in her hands.

“Can I come in?” she asks gently, lifting up a first aid kit so I can see it.

She…she came here with a first aid kit?

I blink at her a couple of times, studying her face, trying to figure out what’s going on. Did Livia force her to come here? She doesn’t look scared. She looks…worried. Concerned. And that just makes it more confusing.

I don’t answer; I simply step back and let her walk past me. And then I close the door, sealing her in with me.