Page 37

Bella

The following morning, I trace the lines of Ares's tattoos with my pencil, watching how the early morning light plays across his skin.

The Celtic knots breaking into geometric shapes seem alive in the golden glow filtering through my bedroom window.

My hand moves almost on its own, capturing the way the bird cage on his shoulder appears to be shattering, letting freedom take flight.

He's beautiful when he sleeps. The sharp edges of control soften, making him look more like the boy I once knew. The boy who showed up at my door one autumn afternoon with chocolate chip cookies and understanding beyond his years.

I bite my lip, trying to focus on getting the shading right instead of the memory that floods in uninvited.

Me, curled up on my grandmother's worn couch, thirteen and drowning in grief on what should have been Mom's birthday.

The gentle tap on the window that made me look up to find Ares standing there, grocery bag in hand.

"I brought reinforcements," he'd said, pulling out a package of cookies.

Such a simple gesture, but it cracked something in me.

He didn't try to fix anything. Just sat beside me, shoulder to shoulder, and let me cry when the dam finally broke.

When I could breathe again, he asked about my parents, genuinely wanting to know them through my stories.

Ares shifts in his sleep, and I just want to curl into his warmth and let him make me forget everything going on behind these walls like only he can. Heat floods my cheeks at the memory of his mouth trailing down my neck, his hands... Jesus, Bella, focus.

I grab a fresh sheet of paper, determined to capture his sleeping face. The strong line of his jaw, softened in sleep. Those lips that can curve into the most devastating smirk or whisper the sweetest confessions against my skin. My fingers itch to trace them, but I resist. He needs his rest.

Slipping off the bed, I go into the kitchen.

My stomach growls, and a grin spreads across my face as an idea forms. I open the refrigerator and cabinets and start to create a breakfast that can feed a small army. Forty minutes later, I lift a tray with pancakes with syrup, croissants and eggs Benedict.

I carry it toward the bedroom. "Oh, who wants some bacon? The crispiest bacon in all the land," I sing-song terribly off-key, watching Ares stir. "Coffee for my sleeping beauty, because someone wore himself out last night..."

My heart does that annoying flutter thing when his lips curve into a smile, eyes still closed.

God, I'm in trouble. Such delicious, complicated trouble.

And I'm going to enjoy it. I'm going to pretend the world outside this room doesn't exist. That we're just Bella and Ares, sharing breakfast in bed and trading kisses that taste like coffee and possibilities.

Ares's eyes flutter open, deep-brown and sleep-soft, scanning the tray before landing on me. "What's all this?"

"Clearly someone needs his strength. Not sure the stallion can keep up his... stamina." I wiggle my eyebrows, channeling my inner game show host.

His eyes darken, a predatory gleam replacing the drowsiness as he sits up.

The sheet pools at his waist, and my mouth goes dry watching his muscles flex beneath the tattoos.

The scruff along his jaw has grown even thicker overnight, making him look deliciously untamed.

It's a good look on him—dangerous, primal, mine.

"What delicacies have you brought me, Red?" His voice is still rough with sleep.

I clear my throat, pushing aside dangerous thoughts. "Allow me to present..." I point to the first plate. "Fresh-baked croissants, straight from the ovens of this fine establishment. Flaky, buttery, and guaranteed to make a Parisian weep with joy."

His lips twitch. "Is that so?"

"But wait, there's more!" I bring his attention to the next plate. "Behold, eggs Benedict with hollandaise sauce so smooth it could teach a pickup artist lessons in being slick."

A laugh rumbles from his chest, deep and genuine. It's a sound I want to bottle and keep forever.

"And for our piece de resistance..." I reveal the final dish with a dramatic gasp. "Stack of fluffy pancakes drowning in maple syrup. Warning: May cause spontaneous declarations of love and/or marriage proposals."

"You're ridiculous." But his grin is wide.

"You love it."

His eyes hold mine. "That I certainly do." Then he asks, "What would you suggest I start with?"

"Let me break down the nutritional benefits," I say, channeling my best cooking show host voice. "These croissants are packed with butter—essential for maintaining that smooth charm of yours. The eggs Benedict? Pure protein for those impressive... problem-solving skills."

Ares leans back against the headboard, eyes dancing. "And here I thought the hollandaise was just for show."

"Oh no, very important sauce. Helps with..." I wave my hand vaguely, "flexibility. For all those negotiations, of course."

"Of course." His smile turns wicked. "And the pancakes?"

"Energy. Stamina. The ability to... stay up late reviewing things."

He chuckles, deep and rich. "Sounds like I need all three. Though I should probably start with building up that charm."

"Wise choice." I grab the plate of croissants and settle cross-legged on the bed across from him. "These are still warm."

Breaking off a piece, I take a bite, letting out an exaggerated moan. "Oh my god."

"Is that so?" Ares raises an eyebrow. "Planning to share, or just torment me with sound effects?"

I tear off another piece, holding it up. "I don't know. Are you capable of being a good boy and saying please?"

His eyes darken. "Please, Red."

"Well, since you asked so nicely." I lean forward. "Open up."

He parts his lips, and I place the buttery morsel on his tongue, trying not to fixate on the way his mouth curves into a smile. Our eyes lock, and for a moment, the playful mood shifts into something more intense.

"Verdict?" I ask, my voice slightly breathless.

"Heavenly." He breaks off a piece of his own croissant. "Your turn."

And just like that, we're feeding each other breakfast, laughing like teenagers, as if there is no threat hanging above our heads.

The silence stretches between bites of buttery pastry until Ares breaks it with an unexpected question. "How are you really doing? With the video?"

I nearly choke on my croissant, the lightness of the moment evaporating. "I..." My voice catches as I try to maintain the brave face I've been wearing. "I hate it. I hate that they can just... rewrite history like that. Make people believe whatever narrative suits them."

Ares sets aside his plate, his full attention on me. "Red..."

"The comments are the worst part." The words spill out before I can stop them. "All these strangers thinking they know me, know us. Calling me a gold digger, a thief, saying I'm using you..." I drag in a shaky breath. "I know I shouldn't read them, but—"

"Hey." His hands cup my face, thumbs brushing away tears I didn't realize had fallen. "Look at me."

I meet his gaze, finding fierce protection there.

"They don't know you," he says firmly. "They don't know us. And engaging with it, giving it attention—that's exactly what they want."

"I know." I lean into his touch. "I know that logically. But seeing Jessica and your mother's lies spread everywhere, watching people believe them..."

"We're pushing back." His voice carries quiet determination.

"That security footage? It's Saint Industries' private property.

If my parents claim they didn't release it—which they are—then whoever leaked it obtained it illegally.

Ethan's working with our tech team to trace the source, and Caroline Mitchell is preparing legal action. "

"Caroline Mitchell?" My eyes widen. "The media defense lawyer? Ares, she must cost—"

He grins. "I might not have access to the Saint billions anymore, but that doesn't mean I don't have money. Trust me, Red. I can afford to fight this battle."

"It's just..." I hesitate. "I'm not used to having someone fight for me like this."

His eyes darken with emotion. "You're not alone this time." His fingers thread through my hair, cradling my head. "We have resources, legal teams, people working around the clock to fight this. We'll weather this together."

Something in his touch, his words, ignites a different kind of need in me. A need to feel connected, to lose myself in sensation rather than worry.

I find myself crawling onto his lap. "Make me forget?" The whispered request hangs between us. "Just for a little while?"

His pupils dilate. "I can do that."

His mouth claims mine, hot and demanding.

The kiss deepens, his tongue sliding against mine as his hands grip my hips tighter.

Heat pools low in my belly as he pulls me closer, until there's no space left between us.

I lose myself in the sensation—the taste of coffee and syrup on his lips, the scrape of stubble against my skin, the way his muscles flex beneath my palms.

With obvious reluctance, I pull back just enough to breathe. "The breakfast..." I manage, though my voice sounds husky even to my own ears.

"Mmm." His lips trail down my neck, making coherent thought difficult. "Can't let those nutritional benefits go to waste."

I gaze through heavy-lidded eyes as he stretches for the breakfast tray, transfixed by his fluid grace. He prowls like a panther, if panthers sported impossible shoulder-to-waist ratios and Celtic knots swirled across their skin.

The sight of all that power and control, the way his tattoos shift with each motion, sparks an idea. "I want to paint you," I say with a grin.

Ares goes still, that devastating smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Oh? And what exactly are you interested in... capturing?"