Page 50

The words echo in my head hours later as I stand in my studio, trying to lose myself in art rather than dwell on the morning's devastation.

The canvas before me remains stubbornly blank, my usual creativity crushed under the weight of worry for my friends and the sickening suspicion growing in my gut.

I told Ares about Amanda's store situation, about my fear that his family might be behind it. He'd listened carefully, brow furrowed in concentration.

"I'll look into it," he'd promised, squeezing my hand. "But honestly, Red, I don’t think it's them."

Part of me hopes desperately that he's right.

That my gut feeling is wrong, that Amanda's problems are just bad luck or normal business challenges.

The thought of my friends suffering because of my connection to Ares makes me physically ill.

They've supported me through everything—they don't deserve to be collateral damage in this war with the Saints.

"Hey." Ares's voice, warm and certain, draws my attention to where he's settling onto my worn leather couch. "Why don't you paint me."

I turn, surprised to find him watching me with that intensity that still makes my heart skip beats. "What?"

"You heard me." His lips curve into that devastating smirk that does dangerous things to my insides. "I've seen how you look at me when you think I'm not paying attention. Like you're cataloging every shadow, every line." He stretches, deliberately casual, a panther at rest. "So paint me."

"You hate sitting still." But I'm already reaching for my brushes, my pulse quickening at the possibility, at the distraction he's offering.

"I hate seeing you stuck more." He shrugs off his suit jacket, those dark eyes never leaving mine. "Besides, I've got some calls to make. Might as well make it interesting for both of us."

"In that case, lose the shirt." The words slip out before I can stop them, making his eyebrows shoot up in amused surprise. I grin, heat blooming across my cheeks. "It's important for the art. The tattoos—they tell your story."

His laugh is low and knowing as he slowly unbuttons his shirt, each movement deliberate. "Whatever you say, Red."

There's something almost sacred about this moment as he stretches out, bare-chested and completely at ease.

The late afternoon light streaming through my studio windows turns him into a study of shadows and angles that makes my artist's soul ache with need to capture it.

His business calls come and go, handled through his earpiece as I work, his voice a gentle backdrop to my brushstrokes.

My brush dances across the canvas, finally finding its purpose as I try to capture the contradiction of him.

The powerful lines of his shoulders versus the vulnerable curve of his neck.

The way his compass tattoo seems alive against his skin, rising and falling with each breath like it's searching for true north.

Even the scattered papers from his calls lay forgotten on the floor, a testament to how fully he's surrendered to being my muse.

He's been perfectly still for over an hour now, a feat I know doesn't come naturally to him.

But this is his gift to me—this rare moment of complete stillness from a man who's always in motion.

He's giving me something to create when others try to destroy.

Each stroke of my brush feels like reclaiming a piece of myself, even as the memory of my cancelled gallery event and Amanda's ruined inventory keeps trying to creep in.

I mix another shade of gold, determined to capture the exact way light plays across the empty birdcage tattoo on his shoulder blade.

That beautiful symbol of rebellion and freedom that mirrors my own fight for independence.

My fingers itch to trace the intricate lines, to feel the warmth of his skin beneath my touch, but I force myself to translate that desire into paint instead.

"Stop thinking so loud," he murmurs without opening his eyes, a small smile playing at his lips.

"I'm an artist. We think loud." My hand pauses mid-stroke, Amanda's devastated face flashing through my mind. The weight of what's happening to her—to all of us—settles heavy in my chest.

"Brooding is my job." His smirk does interesting things to his face—and my insides. "Besides, I'm the one sitting here half-naked while you ogle me under the guise of 'art.'"

A laugh bubbles up, unexpected but welcome. "Please. As if you need an excuse to take your clothes off."

"Only for you, Red." His eyes darken with promise that sends heat cascading through me. "Only ever for you."

The radio shifts songs, and suddenly the familiar melody fills the space between us. My breath catches as memories flood back—my parents swaying in our old living room, lost in their own world, my father singing softly in my mother's ear while she laughed.

"This song..." I set down my brush, emotion thick in my throat.

Ares is already moving, rising from the couch with fluid grace. He extends his hand, no words needed. My heart swells as I take it, letting him pull me into his arms.

We move together in the afternoon light, my cheek pressed against his bare chest, his heartbeat steady under my ear.

His skin is warm against my palms, and I can feel the subtle shift of muscles as he holds me close, one hand splayed across my lower back, the other cradling my fingers against his heart.

"I love you." His words rumble through his chest, vibrating against my skin, seeping into my bones.

I tilt my face up to meet his gaze, finding everything I feel reflected in those dark eyes. "I love you too."

His thumb traces my cheekbone, tender and reverent.

Then his lips meet mine. The kiss starts soft, a gentle press of lips that quickly deepens into something more urgent, more consuming.

My fingers curl against his chest, feeling his heart race beneath my palm.

For a moment, everything else falls away—the gallery issue, Amanda's ruined inventory—all of it fading until there's nothing but us, nothing but this connection that defies everything trying to tear it apart.

For the first time in days, the silence feels safe instead of suffocating.

But some part of me still listens for the crack in the peace, for the moment this bubble of happiness will shatter like all the others before it.

My thumb traces the curves of my ring, holding onto this moment, this peace, this us.

Then my phone pierces the moment with its shrill ring.