Page 45

The deep, resonant hum of the motorcycle pulls me from sleep.

It’s a sound I know all too well, low, profound, and unsettlingly familiar.

I sit up abruptly, my heart pounding in my chest, the blanket slipping from my shoulders as I peer into the inky darkness.

The manor is cloaked in silence, but that sound, that unmistakable, throaty growl of the Ducati, vibrates through the floor like a distant, ominous warning.

Ares.

I’m already up, moving silently across the room, my bare feet feather light against the cold floor as I approach the window. Moonlight spills across the yard, casting ethereal silver bands over the gravel drive, illuminating the night with an otherworldly glow.

And then I see him.

He’s walking toward his villa, his body tilted slightly to one side.

One arm hangs lower than the other, like it’s been weighed down.

But it’s his vest that makes my breath hitch, a stark grey canvas now marred with blood, dark and viscous, seeping through the fabric like ink spreading across a page.

I press my fingers against the cool glass, my breath misting the pane with a fragile, fleeting cloud.

He doesn't stumble or falter. He walks on with an eerie calmness, composed and collected, as if he hasn't just arrived on the brink of collapse.

As if bleeding is merely a mundane part of his existence.

The porch light flickers on as he reaches the door. Without a pause, he slips inside, the heavy door closing behind him, like a secret slammed shut.

My pulse races wildly.

What in the world happened to him?

I should go back to bed. Pretend I didn’t see anything. Pretend I’m not standing here like a lunatic with my heart in my throat and a hundred questions clawing at my chest.

But I can’t.

Because something tells me… whatever he just walked away from...it wasn’t the kind of night one walks away from unscathed.

And no matter how often or gravely he warns me to keep my distance... I just can’t . Especially when I can see he’s hurt.

Before I can stop myself, I’m pulling my satin night gown over the matching satin nightdress, and I’m sneaking through the eerie and still hallways of the manor until I reach the back door.

I slide it open, just enough to slip out and close it quietly behind me.

In my haste, I forgot to put my shoes on, so I feel the rough gravel biting into the soles of my feet as I cross the ground toward Ares’s place.

Every step I take closer feels like a betrayal of his trust, but the need to know consumes me. The door to his villa stands before me, a barrier between safety and the unknown. I hesitate for a moment, picturing his stoic expression as he disappeared inside moments ago.

My hand trembles as I reach out and push open the heavy door.

The villa is silent, draped in shadows. My footsteps are light against the cold marble floor, but my breath comes in shaky bursts as I follow the trail of dark crimson droplets.

Blood. A trail that doesn’t end, it leads.

Around corners. Down the corridor. Toward the door that’s been left slightly ajar.

I push it open.

The room is dimly lit, quiet save for the shallow drag of breath coming from the man standing at its centre. Ares. His broad back is to me, muscles tense, his shirt peeled halfway off, soaked through with blood. The sight roots me to the floor, and I feel my stomach churn.

“Ares,” I whisper, the name catching like glass in my throat.

He doesn’t move.

But before I can step further inside, a hand wraps around my arm and yanks me back. Hard.

“Jordyn, no,” Dante’s voice is low and firm. “You can’t be here.”

I twist in his grip, trying to fight him off. “Let go of me!”

“You need to leave?—”

“I said let me go, Dante.”

The sound of my struggle must reach him, because in the next breath, a voice slices through the air like a whip. “Dante.” One word. Cold and commanding. “Get your fucking hands off her.” Dante freezes. His grip loosens, and I tear my arm away as Ares turns to face us.

He’s pale. Shirtless now, blood streaked down his right side, his shoulder wrapped in gauze that’s already soaked through. But it’s not the wound that steals my breath, it’s his eyes. Storm-dark, wild and locked on Dante’s hand like it’s a threat, and he wants nothing more than to break it.

Then they shift to me.

And just like that, the world falls away.

My legs shake as I slowly walk toward him.

“Oh, my God...” Ares stands still as I reach him.

My heart sinks. My chest aches just looking at him.

I take another step. My fingers twitch at my side, aching to touch him, to reach for his skin and see for myself just how bad it is.

When I reach out, he finally moves, sharp and sudden, stepping away from my touch like it burns.

“Don’t,” he grits out, voice low and wrecked.

I freeze, my hand suspended mid-air, breath caught in my throat as he turns his back to me.

“Go home, Jordyn.” he says next, the words strained through clenched teeth. “Dante is right, you shouldn’t be here.”

But I don’t move. I can’t. He turns his head slightly, enough for me to see the pain etched into his profile, the blood at the corner of his mouth, the tension carved into every line of his body.

Then his eyes flick to mine, hard and unreadable. At first they do a quick sweep over me, likely taking in my sleep attire and I swear I see him swallow hard before he speaks.

“What did I tell you,” he growls, “about storming into places that belong to me, Jordyn?” My heart splinters in my chest.

Because even bleeding, even broken, he’s still trying to keep me out.

“You’re hurt, Ares. What did you expect to me do? I wanted to come and see if you’re okay?”

“I expect you to mind your damn business.” He retorts gravely. “Last time I checked you weren’t a doctor and as you can see, I already have one, therefore you have no reason to be here.”

My brows knit and I can feel my temper flaring. I walk over to him, and kick the door shut behind me with my foot. It slams shut, the sound echoes through the villa. “I don’t need to be a doctor to be here, Ares. I care about you, that should be reason enough.”

Ares stares at me, his chest rises and falls like every breath is war. I inch closer to him and that’s when I see the bruises on his cheek, on his ribs, the cut on his temple.

He turns, chest heaving, eyes burning. His body bruised and battered and still, somehow, built like a god carved in rage.

“Then don’t,” he says lowly.

“Really?” I breathe, tears stinging. “Even now, you’re still trying to push me away?”

The silence that follows is thick. He doesn’t look at me. Just stares past, jaw locked, fists clenched, like letting me in might tear down something he's spent his whole life building.

“If it were me,” I whisper, “and I was hurt... would you leave me?”

He says nothing.

“You didn’t before. You were there, when I overdosed, when I broke down, when I didn’t even know I needed someone. You stayed.”

Still, silence.

“And now I’m here. I’m standing right in front of you, and I’m not asking for answers or for the truth. I’m not asking for anything but the chance to be what you were for me. Let me stay.”

His eyes finally meet mine, and this time, they don’t look away.

The fight in him falters. His shoulders sag a little, not in defeat, but exhaustion. Pain. Conflict.

I step forward slowly, reaching for the medical supplies on the table.

“Let me help clean you up.”

Ares doesn’t speak. He doesn’t stop me either. He just stands there, jaw locked, eyes burning holes into the floor like if he looks at me too long, the cracks will split open and everything he’s trying to bury will rise.

I gather gauze, antiseptic, and trembling resolve, then approach him again.

“Sit,” I say gently. I look over at my shoulder at Dante standing in the doorway. “Dante, can you get me some warm water and a clean cloth, please?” Dante looks over at Ares, who nods once and he walks off to do as I asked.

Ares hesitates, but only for a beat, before lowering himself onto the edge of the low couch behind him. He’s still not looking at me. His body is still turned partially away, shoulders rigid, like he’s waiting for something to snap inside him.

I kneel between his legs and dip the cotton pads in antiseptic so I can clean his cuts. The scent of it stings my nose. Or maybe that’s just the ache climbing up the back of my throat.

“This might sting,” I murmur.

A humourless huff escapes him. “It already does.”

My hand pauses over his shoulder, heart thudding. Slowly, I begin dabbing the dried blood around the wound, careful not to press too hard. He doesn’t flinch, but I feel it, the slight tremor in his thigh beneath my knee. The way his breath hitches.

“How did this happen?” I ask quietly.

He doesn’t answer. Just stares ahead, jaw clenches.

“It wasn’t just a fight,” I say, more to myself than him. “You were shot, weren’t you, Ares.”

The silence that follows feels heavy enough to crush the air between us. Dante comes back with the water and sets it on the floor beside me and leaves the room, leaving us alone.

“You scare me sometimes,” I whisper, dipping the clean cloth into the warm water ringing out the water and wiping more blood away.

“But it’s not the way you think. It’s not even the violence, or the coldness.

It’s the way you wear your pain like armour, how you push people out before they get close enough to see you bleed. ”

His eyes shift, finally locking on mine.

“You think this is me bleeding?” he rasps. “You haven’t even seen the worst of it.”

I press the clean gauze to his side a little harder than necessary, my throat tight. “Then show me. Or stop pushing me away.”

He watches me. And in his gaze is something that both pleads and warns.

“You shouldn’t care this much,” he murmurs.

“Yeah, well it’s a little too late for that,” I breathe, not even blinking. “I already do.”