Page 31

Ares

I wake slowly, consciousness creeping in like dawn.

There's a weight on my chest, soft warmth pressed against my side, and fear grips me—the same fear that's haunted every dream of her for fifteen years.

I keep my eyes closed, holding onto this moment, terrified it will shatter into empty sheets and bitter regret.

But then I breathe in—watermelon and paint—and relief floods through me. This is real.

When I finally look down, my heart stops—then surges.

Isabella is draped across my chest, her magnificent red hair spilling over my shoulder like liquid fire. Her face—so often guarded around me—is soft now, untroubled in sleep.

Each slow, warm breath against my skin feels like a miracle. A quiet, steady reminder that somehow, impossibly… she’s here.

She forgave me. The realization lodges in my throat like glass.

After everything my family put her through, she still let me stay.

Still chose to trust me again. Looking at her now, I make a silent vow: this time, I'll be worthy of that trust. I know this peace won’t last—not with my last name—but I’ll hold onto it for as long as I can.

My gaze drifts to my phone, dark and accusingly silent on the nightstand.

No missed calls. No threats. The silence from my parents sets off warning bells in my head—they're always most dangerous when quiet, when they're calculating their next strike.

But for once, I don't care. Let them plot. Let them scheme.

Yesterday's interview still burns in my memory.

I've spent my life avoiding cameras, ducking reporters, playing the perfect Saint heir.

But standing in that empty gallery, seeing the bare walls where her art should have hung?

Something broke loose inside me. The words poured out, raw and honest—everything I should have said fifteen years ago.

Everything I'd been too young, too blind, too controlled to understand.

She stirs slightly, pressing closer, and my arms tighten instinctively. This brilliant, fierce woman deserves so much better than being collateral damage in my family's power plays. She deserves galleries filled with her work, recognition for her talent, freedom to create without fear of reprisal.

And now she's here, trusting me enough to sleep in my arms. It's more than I deserve, but God help me, I'll spend every day trying to be worthy of this second chance.

My fingers trace idle patterns on her bare shoulder, memorizing the silk of her skin.

The simple touch sends electricity through my veins.

She's wearing nothing but those little black panties that have been driving me insane since we crawled into bed last night, both too emotionally drained to do more than kiss and hold each other.

But now? Now my body is anything but exhausted.

She stirs, her head sliding across my chest as she burrows closer. The innocent movement sends blood rushing south, my cock hardening instantly.

I roll her gently onto her back, unable to resist dropping kisses along her collarbone. My hand skims down her side, mapping the curves I've missed for so long. She's everything—my heart, my soul, the missing piece that's left my world tilted wrong without her.

The thought aches, a physical pain in my chest. But it's a good ache. A healing one. Because she's here now, and I'm never letting her go again. Whatever comes next—my parents' retaliation, the media storm, the inevitable fallout—we'll face it together.

I'm sure about that in a way I've never been sure of anything in my life.

Her skin tastes like honey and promises under my lips. Each kiss draws those little purring sounds from her throat that drive me wild. Her hands move, fingers trailing lazy patterns across my shoulders as she drifts toward consciousness.

"Mmm." She arches slightly into my touch. "I could get used to waking up like this."

I hum against her collarbone, trailing kisses down to the swell of her breast. "Good." My voice comes out rough. "Because I plan on waking you like this every chance I get."

My hand cups her breast, thumb brushing across her nipple. I replace my thumb with my tongue, drawing the sensitive peak into my mouth, and she comes alive beneath me.

"Ares..." My name falls from her lips like a prayer.

Need ripples between us, electric and consuming. Her fingers tangle in my hair, tugging in that way that makes me growl against her skin. Each moan that escapes her makes me harder than I thought possible.

When her hand slides down my chest, wrapping around my length, I nearly lose my mind. "Fuck, Red." The words come out strangled as she strokes me. "You're going to kill me."

She laughs, the sound turning into a gasp as I suck harder on her nipple. "What a way to go though."

The teasing in her voice, the playful confidence—God, I've missed this. Missed her. The way she can match me touch for touch, the perfect balance of sweet and sexy that's uniquely Isabella.

Her thumb swipes over my tip and pleasure shoots through me like lightning. Everything narrows to the feel of her hand on me, her skin under my lips, the way she moves beneath me like she can't get enough.

This is what I've been missing. What I've needed. Not just the physical pleasure, but this connection. This feeling of rightness that only comes when I'm with her.

My Red. My everything.

"Come here," I growl, moving to lie on my back. "I want to taste you."

Her eyes darken with understanding. She moves over me, straddling my chest before slowly turning, giving me a view that makes my mouth water. Those black panties are soaked through, and when I run a finger along the damp fabric, she shivers.

"These need to go." I hook my fingers in the waistband, sliding them down her thighs. She helps kick them off, then settles back over me, positioning herself perfectly.

The first swipe of my tongue makes her gasp, her hips jerking. And then—holy fuck—her mouth wraps around me, hot and wet and perfect. The dual sensation of giving and receiving pleasure short-circuits my brain.

I focus on her taste, on drawing those little whimpers from her throat that vibrate around my length. My hands grip her thighs, holding her steady as I work her with my tongue. Each flick, each swirl makes her moan around me, creating a feedback loop of pleasure that's almost too much.

Her hands aren't idle, stroking what her mouth can't take, playing with my balls in a way that has me groaning against her center. The vibrations make her grind down on my face, seeking more.

I give it to her, sucking her clit while sliding two fingers inside. The way she clenches around my fingers, the desperate sounds she makes—it's driving me insane. But I want this, want to make her fall apart while she's taking me apart.

Her movements grow wild, her lips sliding over me with increasing urgency as she writhes against my touch.

Her thighs quiver against my shoulders, muscles tensing beneath soft skin.

I curl my fingers inside her, and press my tongue harder against her center.

She shatters instantly—her back arching, her mouth still wrapped around me as a muffled cry tears from her throat.

The sound hums through my flesh, electric vibrations shooting straight to my core.

The sight, the sound, the feel of her pulsing around my fingers—it's too much. Pleasure crashes over me like a tidal wave, white-hot and all-consuming. She swallows everything I give her, working me through it until we're both spent and shaking.

She collapses beside me, breathing hard.

I pull her up, tasting myself on her lips as I kiss her. She moans, no doubt tasting herself on my tongue. The kiss is messy and perfect, a blend of both of us that feels like coming home.

We lie there for a moment, catching our breath, when her stomach lets out an impressive growl.

"My cum not enough for you, Red?"

She snorts, smacking my chest. "That was just the appetizer. Coffee is the main course of any respectable morning."

I chuckle, dropping a kiss on her cheek before sliding out of bed. "One coffee coming up."

The morning light fills her loft as I pad to the kitchen, giving me a perfect view of her space. It's so uniquely Isabella—art supplies scattered about, splashes of color everywhere, the organized chaos of a creative mind.

My eyes land on a framed photo on the counter, and my heart clenches. Isabella and Evelyn, both smiling at the camera, paint smudged on their cheeks. It must have been taken in the garden, roses blooming behind them.

Warm arms wrap around my waist, soft lips pressing against my spine. "What's wrong?"

A sad laugh escapes me. "You always could read me too well." I touch the frame gently. "Seeing this... God, I hate that I can't apologize to her anymore. That I can't tell her how sorry I am for everything."

Silence falls between us, heavy with shared grief. Then, so quietly I almost miss it, "I need to visit their graves soon. Would you... would you like to come?"

I still, the weight of her invitation settling in my chest. "Do you go often?"

"At least once a month." Her cheek presses against my back, her arms tightening slightly. "Change the flowers, say hello. They're all there together—Mom, Dad, Gran. Side by side."

I turn in her arms, studying her face. She's wearing my shirt from yesterday, her hair a glorious mess, eyes soft with sleep and something deeper. Vulnerable. She's sharing something precious, letting me into this private part of her life.

"I'd like that." The words come out before I can overthink them. "Today? If you're comfortable with that?"

Her eyes widen slightly, like she didn't expect me to suggest going so soon. Then a small, sad smile touches her lips. "Yeah. Today would be good."

I cup her face, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead. "Coffee first though?"

"God yes." She stretches up to peck my lips. "Can't face emotional moments without caffeine."