Page 20

Chapter twenty

~ARES~

Watching the guys practice feels good. The sound of skates cutting through the ice, the rhythm of their movements—it’s hypnotic. Even though I’m not out there with them, just standing on the sidelines is like a goddamn release. I’ve missed being here, missed the ice, the rink.

But the truth? None of it compares to missing her.

The first thing I did when I walked in was to go to Irene.

Fuck, I was wrecked without her. Ten days without being on the ice was bad. But ten days without my girl? Without seeing her, without hearing her voice, feeling her touch? That shit was torture. Every minute felt like an eternity. It’s like my entire world’s been off-balance. But I knew I needed to give her enough space to see if she would miss me, too. That my being gone would matter to her in some way.

I squeeze my eyes shut for a second as I walk toward the locker rooms.

Her shift’s ending soon, and I’m picking her up. And tonight, I’m laying all the cards on the table.

The locker room’s quiet when I walk in—fluorescent lights humming above, the sharp mix of sweat and disinfectant clinging to the air.

I drop my duffel onto the bench and peel off my hoodie, yanking it over my head and letting it fall. My thumbs hook into the waistband of my sweats just as I hear it.

“Ares.”

I turn. Coach Brown walks in, that no-bullshit look already carved into his face. I nod, forcing my expression blank. Neutral. Everything else? Buried.

“I was hoping I’d catch you before you leave. Mathews tell you anything?” he asks, eyes flicking to my hip.

“Hip pointer is healing nicely. I should be good to play the next game.” I nod once, easing out of my sweatpants and tossing them on the bench.

“Okay,” he breathes out in relief. “That’s good.” He lets out a laugh, shaking his head. “We could really use your stick for the next game.”

“I’ll be ready,” I say, but I already know that nothing’s going to keep me off the ice for an elimination game, first round of the playoffs.

“As long as Dr. Mathew clears it. I won’t have you re-injure yourself,” Brown says, lifting his brow. “Don’t fight me on this, Ares. I’m not letting you play unless you're cleared.”

“I know,” I grunt, pulling a fresh pair of pants from my duffel bag.

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Brown glance down.

I follow his gaze—and freeze. My blood runs ice-cold, and everything inside me locks up. Pink lace panties. Her panties.

I watch Coach Brown’s eyes linger on them before looking up with a half-smile, completely unaware whose underwear they are.

“You know better than to mess around with puck bunnies in here,” he says, his voice light but edged. “Outsiders aren’t allowed past the public rink, you know that.”

His voice is casual, his warning firm. But his tone? Fatherly, advising, looking out for me like a son. But despite all of it, it doesn’t change the fact that I’d do it all over again—because no amount of guilt could ever make me stop wanting her.

I school my expression and let a slow, easy smile pull at my lips.

“Yeah,” I say, plucking the panties gently from the floor, tucking them back into my bag. “I’m well aware, Coach.”

“Just keep it outside my facility, alright?”

“Understood.” I nod, pretending like I’m not drowning in it.

“When did you grow up so fast, huh?” He chuckles, shaking his head.

My eyes snap to his. The warmth of them has my damn heart breaking. I hate what I’m doing to him. I hate what I’ve done to him. Will he accept me if I tell him? Will he…let me into his family?

“I don’t know,” I say. It’s the only thing I can do right now.

“Alright, I won’t hold you up any longer. Get some rest, we’ll talk to Mathews and Irene about clearance tomorrow.” He pats my shoulder before heading out, oblivious.

And I just stand there, frozen and burning at the same time. I close my eyes.

God fucking help me.

She’s still on my mind when I walk toward her office. Just earlier today, I had her on her knees in there. And fuck me, I love that only I’ve seen that side of her. And if I have it my way, no one else ever will.

But that thought…it comes with a razor edge. Because if I’m the only one who knows, if this is just between us, then maybe that’s exactly how she wants it.

What if this is all just a phase for her? A thrill. Some fun sexual awakening she plans to grow out of once she’s had enough of me. And what if I’m the one left holding the pieces? I don’t want to be hidden. I want to be…wanted. I want her to be with me all the time. Not just in secret.

And I don’t want to lie. Not to Coach, and not to her.

I want her to trust me. To look me in the eye and tell me who she really is. And I’m ready to do the same. Tonight.

I step into her office just as she’s finishing up.

She looks up, and the second our eyes meet, I see it. That same flush on her cheeks, the heat still lingering in her gaze.

My eyes flick to the trash can near her desk, an empty food container right on top.

She ate. Good girl.

“Hey,” she says softly, with a smile.

“Hey, yourself.” I return her smile. “Ready to go?”

“In a minute,” she says, grabbing her tablet. “I pulled up the scans to show you.”

She’s talking, explaining it to me like I don’t already know. But I don’t care about the scan, I care about her.

I stalk toward her slowly, eyes locked on her, while she keeps talking about my hip. I close the distance between us and lean in. She looks up at me mid-sentence, her eyes wide. And then I kiss her softly, shutting her up.

No more hip talk.

Her lips part slightly, letting me taste more of her. I give her one last lingering kiss before I pluck the tablet from her hand and set it on her desk.

“That’s enough work for today,” I murmur, and she stares up at me, blinking. “Okay?”

“Okay.” She nods with a small smile. “Where are we going again?”

I take her hand in mine, lifting it and pressing a light kiss to her knuckles.

“You’ll see.”

The sun’s starting to dip as we pull through the gates of the property—sky painted in gold, red, and shadows. That quiet hour where daylight fades and night begins to take over. It feels familiar.

I drive past our guard post, nodding at security. They greet me as usual, but this time, their eyes flick to the passenger seat.

“What is this place?” Irene asks, watching the road as we drive through the hilltop estate.

“This whole property,” I say, my voice even, “belongs to me, Rowan, and Damien. We bought it when we started our real estate company.”

She turns to look at me, brows raised. “You own a real estate company?”

“Co-own, yes.” I nod once.

She blinks. “I didn’t know you did anything outside of hockey.”

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me.” A lot I haven’t told her. A lot I don’t know how to say, but I will.

I glance at her again, my chest tightening. And there it is. That creeping tension under my ribs. I want her to know everything. I want her to see me, all of me. But the fear that she won’t like what she sees claws at my spine. I can take any hit on the ice. But I don’t know if I could take her walking away.

We pass Rowan’s mansion—clean lines, modern, all glass and steel.

“That one’s Rowan’s,” I say, nodding to the left.

“Wow.” She looks impressed.

We keep driving.

“Damien’s is next. You’ll know it when you see it.”

She laughs the second it comes into view.

All-black exterior, spikes of concrete, and red lights glowing in the driveway like the house is alive.

“Okay, that one looks like a villain’s hideout.”

“It fits him,” I say with a grin.

We keep going, up a slightly longer, winding drive until mine comes into view.

Black. Tall as hell. But with dark wood and gothic accents, it feels more like a haunted cathedral than a bachelor pad, unlike Damien’s.

She leans forward in her seat, her mouth parting slightly.

I park the Aston Martin in front, kill the engine, and get out before walking around to her side and opening the door.

She steps out, turning in a full circle.

“This is beautiful, Ares,” she says.

I watch her soak it in. She looks small here, but not in a weak way—in a perfect way. Like she was made to walk through this place barefoot with my shirt on and coffee in her hand.

“Why’s yours farther away?” she asks, turning to me with a soft smile.

“I like my privacy.” I shrug.

“Are we breaking into this one, too?” Her smile widens, teasing now.

“You want to break in again, you little punk?” I raise a brow.

“I liked it the last time.” She giggles, already backing away.

As you wish.

I grab her waist, lift her easily over my shoulder, and start carrying her toward the front door while she laughs and kicks in fake protest. I type in the door code one-handed, carry her straight inside, and set her down in the front hall, her feet landing softly on the hardwood.

She spins around, eyes wide and lips parted, like she just walked into something sacred. The lighting is low—dim sconces along the walls, a warm, golden glow spilling from recessed fixtures in the ceiling. Soft shadows, clean lines, dark wood floors, thick rugs, and leather and velvet furniture in deep, moody colors. The fireplace is flickering low, casting the entire space in amber light.

She’s silent for a second, looking around.

“Your home is gorgeous,” she says. “And it’s really cozy.”

“Cozy?” I blink and furrow my brows.

“Yeah.” She nods, stepping further in, running her fingers along the back of the velvet couch. “I mean, from the outside, it looks like there’s a dungeon in the basement.”

“But in here?” she says, spinning again. “It feels lived-in. Like...” she pauses, smiling, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear. “It feels like a warm hug.”

My heart does something I don’t recognize.

A warm hug.

No one’s ever said that about me. Or my house. Or anything I’ve ever owned.

I stare at her, standing on my rug, looking so at home. The firelight catches in her eyes, and something twists in my chest. She looks right here.

“So, you like it?” I ask, and my voice comes out rougher than I intended. There’s something tight under my ribs.

Hope.

“I do,” she says, and it’s not casual. Not careless. She says it like she means it.

And suddenly, I want her to like it more than I’ve ever wanted anyone to like anything.

I want her to want to be here. I want her to keep coming back. I want her to stay. I’d tear this whole place down and rebuild it from the ground up if she ever asked me to. If it meant I got to make her happy to be here.

But I don’t say any of that.

Instead, I say, “Come on.”

I lead her through the house, past the glass walls that open wide with the tap of a button, and step outside.

The sun is setting just beyond the hills, covering everything in a soft, golden glow. The pool glistens under the lights embedded in the stone. There’s a sleek black patio with a full outdoor kitchen—grill, fridge, prep station, bar seating—everything custom.

The dining area is tucked under a pergola, wrapped in soft string lights. Romantic as hell. I didn’t plan that part.

I glance at her, and she looks stunned.

“Ares, this is beautiful,” she says, heading to the counter of the outdoor kitchen. “What is this?”

“This,” I say, walking over to the counter where all the ingredients have been prepped and laid out, “is dinner.”

She follows behind me, still wide-eyed, and I gesture to the ingredients.

“I had my chef prep everything so we could save time.”

“Of course, you have a private chef.” She lets out a short laugh.

I smirk, lean in, and kiss her, slow and lingering.

“Now you do, too,” I murmur against her lips.

“Wait. You’re cooking?” she gapes at me, pulling away. I nod with a smile. “You know how to cook?”

“I know how to make a few things. Everything else is…debatable.”

Her laugh is soft, disbelieving. “Okay, then. Let me help.”

I cut her off by grabbing her hips and lifting her straight off the ground.

She gasps, squeals, and the next thing she knows, she’s sitting on the prep counter, legs dangling over the edge.

I step between them, crowding her space, leaning in until our mouths almost touch.

“No helping,” I murmur. “You just sit there and watch me while I cook for you.”

She flushes instantly. I bring my hand up, tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear, then drag my thumb along her jaw.

“And if you behave,” I whisper, “I might even give you your panties back.”

She stares at me, heat pooling in her eyes.

A mischievous smile tugs at her lips. “Which pair?”

I pause, tilt my head, and raise a brow.

“I’m just saying…you have three now. Might as well be specific.” She grins.

I lean in until my lips brush her ear. “If you don’t behave, you’re not getting a single one back.”

“Good thing I started keeping an extra pair in my purse,” she says, eyes gleaming.

“So adaptive,” I muse, my blood already heating. “Now, stay there, or I’ll take those ones, too.”

“You can have them…if you guess the color.” She bites her bottom lip playfully.

Fuck.

My jaw flexes. I wasn’t expecting that. She’s teasing me, and I fucking love it. I lean my hands on either side of her thighs, caging her in as I stare down at her.

“Color?”

She nods, lips twitching like she’s trying not to smile.

I search her face. She’s relaxed and open. Herself. No nervous shifting. No guarded stares. Just her. Beautiful, warm, wicked, and mine. And fuck, I want her to be this way with me always.

But I know we’re on borrowed time. Because there are things we haven’t said, things she hasn’t told me, things I haven’t admitted.

I stare at her a moment longer, my eyes dropping to the curve of her legs, the hem of her skirt. I drag my thumb slowly along her thigh, watching the way her breath hitches.

“Light blue,” I murmur, my voice low, and her eyes widen just slightly.

“How did you know?”

“I know everything.” I dip forward, brushing my mouth over hers. I actually saw them when I threw her over my shoulder.

I kiss her soft lips, but I don’t deepen it. Because as much as I want to keep teasing her… as much as I want to rip those panties off with my teeth and make her beg, I know we’re heading toward a breaking point.

And I’d rather tear her apart with honesty than secrets.

The grill sizzles as I drop the steaks on, oil popping, smoke rising slowly and clean into the warm evening air. I flip a few seasoned vegetables onto the flat top beside them and grab the tongs, working by instinct.

I like cooking out here—I always have. The view helps. Hills that roll out into the city, skyline flickering like a heartbeat. It’s quiet and private. I don’t like being indoors more than I have to be.

But tonight, the view isn’t the lights. It’s her.

Bare-legged, perched on my counter, stealing glances at me when she thinks I’m not looking. The warm breeze lifts her hair just enough to make her look wild.

I check the steaks again and grab a towel to wipe my hands when she speaks.

“What’s this?”

I glance at her, then follow her gaze. She’s looking behind me, at the fridge.

There it is, still pinned under the magnet, exactly where I left it.

“Is this…crayon?” She tilts her head as she studies the paper. “Wait.” She grins. “Do you have an illegitimate child I should know about?”

“No,” I snort.

She raises a brow.

“You remember Mandy? From the center?” I walk over, towel still slung over my shoulder, and nod toward the paper.

Her face lights up. “The little curly-haired girl who poked you while you were pretending to be dead?”

“That’s the one.” I chuckle.

I lean against the counter beside her, eyes still on the drawing. It’s simple—two stick figures, one small with swirls of brown for hair, one tall with black hair and arms too long for his body. They’re holding hands. The sun is a scribble in the corner, and the grass is jagged green lines.

“She made that for me,” I say quietly. “After months of being terrified of me.”

Irene turns to me, smile fading slightly. “Terrified?”

I nod, jaw tightening. “When I first started volunteering, Mandy wouldn’t come near me. Wouldn’t even look at me. She’d scream and hide behind furniture if I got too close.”

I pause.

“CPS took her after they found her malnourished and bruised. The man she was taken from had black hair and tattoos.”

I feel her looking at me, but I keep my eyes on the drawing.

“She cried every time I stepped into the room. She screamed so loud the first week that they asked me to leave early. She couldn’t calm down while I was there.”

I swallow.

“So, I stayed farther away. Sat in corners. Waited. Every time I came in, I tried to make her laugh. I’d let the other kids jump on me, draw on me, paint my arms, whatever it took. And I’d always glance over where she was curled up in the corner, just…watching.”

My voice drops a little.

“It broke my fucking heart.”

Irene doesn’t speak; she knows there’s more to the story. I let the silence settle between us, the sound of the grill crackling in the background.

“One day, she walked up to me. Didn’t say a word, just held this drawing out and waited.” I nod to the tall figure. “That’s me.” Then to the small one holding his hand. “And that’s her.”

The lump in my throat burns.

“She didn’t need to say anything. That was her way of telling me she wasn’t scared anymore.”

I breathe in deep and try to shake the feeling pressing behind my ribs.

“I wanted to hug her. Wanted to tell her how proud I was. But I didn’t want to overwhelm her. So, I just took the drawing and told her thank you. And she smiled.”

I look at Irene. She’s staring at me like she’s seeing me for the first time.

“And you kept the drawing,” she says, her voice soft, almost in awe.

“I did,” I answer. “When the weather’s shit, I bring it inside. I don’t want it getting ruined.”

“You’re a wonderful man, Ares.” Irene turns back to the drawing with a small, sad smile on her lips. “You remind me of my father.”

She sets the table like she’s done it a hundred times. Like she lives here.

The low lights from the outdoor sconces cast a warm glow over her skin, and for a second, I have to stop and look, because she’s here, in my house, under my roof, placing napkins beside plates like this is where she belongs.

I walk over to the bar station and pour our drinks, then grab the plates and bring them over to the table she’s just finished.

She smiles at me. It hits something in my chest I don’t have a name for yet, something I’ve never felt.

I pull her chair out for her, and she sits. I cross the patio to the outdoor couch, grab the throw blanket I keep there for the colder nights, and drape it over the back of her chair.

She looks up at me, questioning.

“In case you get cold.”

She stares at the blanket, then at me as if I just gave her something more than fabric. And then she smiles, soft and warm, and runs her hand down my forearm. Her fingers trail over the veins, ink, and ridges of muscle.

She takes my hand, lifts it, and presses the softest kiss on top of my knuckles. “Thank you,” she whispers against my skin before she lowers my hand.

My entire body stills. No one’s ever done that to me before. She’s not trying to get anything from me. She’s just…thanking me.

She pulls back, her hand still wrapped around mine.

I take a breath, step back, and sit at the table beside her, trying to collect myself like she didn’t just light a fire under my ribs.

“Can I ask you something?” She looks at me, eyes curious, and I nod. “Why do you volunteer at the center?”

I stare into my drink, swirl it once, and take a slow sip.

“The short answer, is I want to help.”

“I gave you the long answer.” She tilts her head, not buying it. “I want one, too.”

“The long answer isn’t pretty.” I laugh, but there’s no humor in it.

“I want it anyway.”

I raise a brow at her, and she holds up her hand, extending her pinkie. I stare at it, at her tiny outstretched finger. I look back at her face.

Is she seriously—

Yep. She’s dead serious.

And fuck me…why is that the most adorable thing in the world?

“I pinkie promise it won’t make me scared or leave.”

My chest goes still. Where the fuck did she learn how to speak directly to the part of me I’ve never shown anyone? How did she know ? I haven’t said a word about my abandonment issues. She’s looking at me like she can see all of it , and instead of flinching, she’s offering her pinkie like a vow.

I stare at her hand for a moment, then raise mine and wrap my pinkie around hers, locking it gently.

“Okay,” I whisper.

The candlelight flickers between us, soft shadows dancing across her face as she waits, pinkie still hooked around mine. I lean back and take a breath so deep it stretches my ribs. This is the moment of truth.

I never talk about this, but I want her to know, to see me.

So, I start.

“I don’t know my father,” I say quietly. “Never met him. My mom…she used to be a drug addict.”

Her expression shifts. She doesn’t speak, but her hand tightens around mine.

“I was too young to understand it. I thought that was just…how moms were. I was five. And back then, it felt normal to find her passed out on the couch.”

I pause. The words feel foreign, thick in my mouth, like I’m coughing up ash.

“Sometimes, I’d cover her with a blanket, thinking she was just asleep.” My jaw clenches. “She wasn’t. She was high out of her mind.”

Across from me, Irene stares—eyes wide, lips parted.

“Oh my God,” she whispers.

“One day, she left our little apartment and just…didn’t come back.” My voice cracks slightly, but I press through. “I don’t remember how long it was. Time didn’t mean anything back then. But I know by the third time I woke up, my stomach felt like it was eating itself. I was so fucking hungry.”

My throat tightens.

“I ended up digging through the trash. Found some apple rinds that were brown and rotten and ate them anyway.”

I close my eyes. That memory still feels like it’s stitched to my skin. Every time I’m hungry, even now, I remember that taste .

Her plate is untouched, and her body is turned toward me in her chair like nothing else matters. I close my eyes for a second. It takes everything in me not to let that memory drag me under.

That’s when I feel her hands. Both of them wrap around my left hand, gentle but firm, grounding.

I open my eyes. She’s still looking at me. She doesn’t say a word, doesn’t push or rush me. She just waits.

I swallow hard, squeeze her hands back, and keep going.

“After that, things get fuzzy. I remember strangers walking into the house and taking me away. I was crying and so fucking scared. I didn’t know where they were taking me. I just wanted to wait for her to come back.”

I clench my jaw hard.

“They put me in a house with other kids. Told me I’d be living there from now on. I kept thinking my mom was going to show up any minute and ask where I was. That she’d come find me.”

I glance down at our joined hands.

“She didn’t.”

The silence stretches, but she’s still there. Still holding on.

“I found out later,” I say, my voice hollow, “that she didn’t go far. Just went to a friend’s house to get high again. And while she was out getting fucked up…she forgot I existed.”

Irene’s eyes glisten, her face stricken.

I push on.

“They put me in a group home first. Bunk beds. Cold food. Other kids with worse scars. I didn’t understand why I was there. All I knew was…I wasn’t wanted.”

I glance down and force a breath through the lump in my throat.

“I grew up in the system. Got passed around from one foster home to another. The first time someone said a family wanted me, I was… happy. ”

I laugh under my breath. It’s bitter and cold.

“I packed the little suitcase they gave me, wore my best clothes, and smiled so hard my cheeks hurt. I said please and thank you. I ate all my food. I just wanted them to like me and keep me. I tried so hard to be good.”

I swallow again. My chest tightens like it’s being crushed from the inside.

“But after a while…they sent me back.”

Her lips part, but she doesn’t interrupt. She just keeps holding my hand like it’s keeping me from falling apart.

“I thought I did something wrong. I was heartbroken.” I pause again, the memory slamming into me like a wave. “A man used to visit the orphanage every two weeks. Played sports with us, made me laugh. Gave me something to look forward to.”

My voice drops.

“Then one day, he didn’t come back either.”

Irene lets out a tiny breath, almost like a sob she’s holding back for me.

“The second family came. I smiled. Ate my food. Played with their kids. They sent me back after two months.”

My hands tighten around hers.

“By the sixth family, I stopped trying.” I finally look up at her. “I stopped smiling. Stopped eating. Stopped saying thank you. What was the point? They’d send me back anyway.”

Her eyes are shining now, her mouth turned downward.

“I turned seventeen, bitter as hell. Angry. Lost. I started hanging around the wrong people. Got into a lot of bad shit I shouldn’t have. Started spiraling, fast.”

I lean forward, elbows on the table, our hands still tangled in the middle.

“I was starting to become her,” I whisper.

Irene’s bottom lip trembles.

“That’s why I go to the youth center,” I finish. “Because those kids? I’ve been every single one of them. The angry ones. The quiet ones. The ones waiting by the door for someone who isn’t coming back. I see them. I am them. And I’ll do whatever it takes to make them happy. Give back with my time and donations.”

She doesn’t speak; she just holds my hands, the food forgotten.

Then she scoots closer, chair scraping softly until our knees bump.

Our hands stay joined as I turn toward her. “Don’t pity me,” I say. “I didn’t tell you this so you could feel sorry for me.”

Her brows pinch.

“I don’t,” she says, shaking her head. “I don’t pity you, Ares.” She leans in, eyes locking with mine. “I’m in awe of you.”

My chest pulls tight.

“I’m devastated for what you went through. I’m furious for the little boy who had to dig through the trash. But I’m not sitting here feeling sorry for you.”

Her voice trembles.

“I’m sitting here thinking…how did you do all this?”

I blink. With your father’s help.

“You pulled yourself out of all that darkness. And now, you’re turning around and making sure other kids know they have someone.” She swallows, eyes burning. “Do you even understand how powerful that is?”

She sees me, and there’s no judgment. Just understanding.

I study her. I look for pity. But it’s not there. There’s pain. Anger. Sadness. But no pity. None.

And then she stands and settles herself in my lap.

My body goes still. Her knees frame my thighs, her hands reach up, and suddenly, she’s holding my face with both hands.

“You’re incredible,” she whispers. “Thank you,” she says, her thumbs brushing my cheekbones. “For telling me.”

I can’t find words as her lips brush mine.

“Thank you for letting me in,” she murmurs into my mouth.

The knot in my throat threatens to choke me, emotion slamming into my chest so hard I almost flinch from it. I grab her, my arms wrapping tightly around her waist, dragging her fully into me.

I kiss her back hard, without restraint, years of rejection and a lifetime of loneliness pouring out of me all at once. She moans softly into my mouth and wraps her arms around my neck, melting into me.

My hands move, gripping her hips, sliding up her back, tangling in her hair.

I drink her in, her lips, her breath, the little sounds she makes when my hands pull her closer. My teeth graze her jaw, and she tilts her head, offering her throat.

But I’m not done. Not yet. I’ve given her my story. Most of it. Now it’s time she hears the rest.

I grip her thighs and stand in one motion, her arms wrapping around my neck as I lift her. She gasps, and I carry her to the oversized outdoor couch. It’s deep and wide, built like a bed with black cushions and plush throw blankets.

I lay her down beneath me and crawl over her, shadows flickering across her skin.

“My story’s not finished,” I murmur, voice low against her lips.

“Tell me.”

I kiss her again, harder this time. My hand glides up her thigh but stays outside her skirt, just resting there as I pour everything into the press of my mouth.

I kiss down her neck, dragging heat along her collarbone with every brush of my lips. She arches into me, her fingers gripping my shirt, her breath hitching on a fragile, broken sound.

“The man who used to visit the orphanage, the one I liked?” I murmur between kisses. “He came back.”

Her breath catches.

“He looked the same. But I didn’t.”

I press a long kiss beneath her jaw, letting my mouth linger against her skin. She moans, her legs shifting restlessly under mine.

“I’d changed. I was angry. Bitter. I hated him for leaving and resented him for coming back like it was nothing.”

I trail kisses lower, over her chest, until I feel the beat of her heart against my mouth. Her hands tangle in my hair as I keep speaking.

“But he kept showing up.”

Another kiss, slow and reverent.

“He saw something in me I didn’t know was still there,” I whisper the words against her skin.

“Then one day…he invited me to his house. Just lunch, nothing more.”

“Ares,” she breathes, her voice unsteady.

I kiss my way back up her chest, her neck, her jaw, never letting up the rhythm of my mouth on her skin.

“We had soup,” I murmur. “But I couldn’t focus. Couldn’t even taste it.” My lips graze her collarbone. “You know what I kept staring at?”

“What?” Her voice is barely a breath.

I kiss her lips again, slow and deep.

“The photo behind him. A picture of him, his wife, and their daughter.”

I feel her still beneath me, the weight of my truth starting to settle.

“They were smiling,” I whisper. “They looked so happy. So fucking safe and loved.”

I press one more kiss over her heart.

“I still remember their names.”

Her eyes flick open, wide and filled with something fierce.

I hold her gaze and bring my mouth to her ear.

“His wife’s name is Gillian.”

She freezes. Her breath catches in her throat.

You recognize your mother’s name, little thing?

I pull back enough to look into her face.

“And the daughter?” I whisper, my lips brushing hers. “Her name was Irene.”