Page 49

I’m floating somewhere in the hazy space between danger and desire. I stopped fearing the fire that burned within me and instead chose to readily and blindly step into its embrace. And fuck it, if I burn, then so be it. I’ll burn.

My hand lingers on his shoulder longer than it should, warm against his skin, blood beneath my palm. But eventually, I let go.

Only… I don’t step away.

The mattress creaks softly as I rise. I move around him instead, slow and deliberate. His body tenses, like he doesn’t know whether to brace or bolt, but I don’t stop. I move to stand in front of him, barefoot, the hem of my nightdress and robe grazing the tops of my thighs as I move.

Ares lifts his gaze to mine, eyes dark, enigmatic, as if they hold secrets of the universe, but he doesn’t pull back.

I inch forward, a single, deliberate step, until my bare knee grazes his. The silk of my robe slides against my skin, but I barely feel it. All I can feel is him. All I can see is the man sitting before me, still and guarded, like he’s waiting for me to flinch.

But I don’t.

Instead, I speak, my voice a quiet, unwavering current cutting through the tension. Words meant for both of us. “Then show me, Ares, show me the parts that do.”

For a moment, he goes still, breath suspended, eyes locked onto mine as if I’ve said something both perilous and profound.

His throat bobs with a hard swallow. “Do you really believe you’re brave enough to see what’s underneath all this?

” He gestures faintly to his chest, to the tension in his frame, the weight in his silence.

“I promise you, bambina... it’s not something soft. It’s not something kind.” I tilt my head, my heart thundering so loud it echoes in my ears.

“Maybe not, but I still want to see.”

The silence that follows is sharp, drawn taut like the air before a thunderstorm. His fingers twitch against his thigh, then curl into a tight fist, as though he’s trying to restrain himself or hold the pieces of himself together.

When he finally speaks, his voice is rough, layered with caution. “You think if I hand those parts over,” he murmurs, “you’ll still want to stay?” My breath catches in my throat, yet I don’t avert my gaze. I should be afraid, I think, but I’m not. I shake my head, slow and assured.

“Are you afraid that I will?” His brown eyes flare with something raw and untamed flickering just beneath their surface. “You don’t scare me,” I whisper, the words a soft challenge hanging in the charged air between us.

I don’t wait for permission.

Maybe I should. Maybe this is reckless, standing so close to a man who wears violence like a second skin, but my body moves before my fear can catch up. Something raw and unspoken hangs between us, thick and trembling, and I can’t ignore it any longer.

My hand lifts, slow and uncertain, fingers hovering over the place where I know his heart is still beating, wild and buried and stubborn. And then I press my palm to his chest.

Right over his heart.

His skin is warm under my touch. Too warm. I feel the tension in him like a storm brewing beneath the surface, muscles taut and breath caught somewhere between restraint and surrender. His heart thuds against my hand, hard and unsteady, and I swear I feel it in my own chest.

“Here?” I ask, barely above a whisper.

He doesn’t answer.

But he doesn’t move away, either.

So I let my hand wander. Not aimless, never aimless, but searching. Curious. Careful. I trace the hard plane of his collarbone, then down again, over his ribs, where the skin pulls tight and his body reacts, twitching, resisting, not from pain but from something deeper. Something older .

“Here?” I murmur again, eyes flicking to his.

Still, no answer.

I don’t need one.

The closer I stand, the more I feel it, this push and pull between us, like a current I’m not sure I want to fight anymore.

My nightdress brushes against his knee, and my breath hitches as I feel the heat of him soak into the silk.

My other hand lifts, almost instinctively, to his face.

My thumb grazes the edge of his cheekbone, just barely tracing the bruise still faintly blooming there.

“Here?” I whisper, voice tighter now. Not because I’m afraid, but because I feel him. God, I feel all of him.

Ares gives me the smallest nod. Just once. But it’s enough.

It’s not the ribs. It’s not the bruises or the half-healed scar along his side. It’s the look in his eyes when he thinks I’m not watching. It’s the silence when he can’t find the words for what’s inside him.

It’s him.

I drag my fingers slowly down the side of his face, across the sharp line of his jaw, then down the strong column of his throat. His pulse kicks beneath my touch, frantic. Real. Human.

“Is this where it hurts?” I ask.

His laugh is soft and broken. Barely a breath. “Everywhere, bambina.”

The sound of it knocks the air from my lungs. Because I know he means it. And not in the dramatic, poetic way people sometimes say things like that. He means it, in the deepest, most fractured parts of himself.

My hands don’t pull away. If anything, they settle firmer. I want to ground him. Anchor him. I want to take all the broken, burning pieces and hold them until they stop shaking.

And fuck, he lets me.

In that moment, I think he’s braver than he’s ever been. Because he’s not reaching for control or retreating into silence. He’s just sitting there...And letting me feel him. Even if neither of us know what this is between us.

My fingers linger along the sharp line of his bearded jaw, steady despite the way my heart is threatening to beat right out of my chest. I don’t know what possesses me, maybe it’s the way he’s looking at me, like he’s afraid to breathe, afraid to shatter whatever this is between us, but I lean in anyway.

Soft and tender.

I press the lightest kiss to his cheekbone, just above the faint purple bruise budding along the bone. I feel him go still beneath me, like the contact knocked something loose. Not in his body, but somewhere I don’t think anyone’s touched before.

Another breath. Another kiss.

This time against his temple, a whisper of warmth and skin and breath that’s more vulnerable than any word I could ever say. I feel his exhale graze my neck, unsteady and sharp.

Something in him breaks then. Not loudly, or with sound, but I feel it, in the way his tension eases by a fraction, in the way he lets me stay close, lets me keep touching him like he’s not made of violence and scars and impossible walls.

Like he’s not dangerous.

Like he’s just a man .

So I keep going. Featherlight kisses along the side of his face, the scar on his left eyebrow, just beneath his eye, the edge of his jaw, the place where stubble brushes my lips. I don’t rush. I don’t speak. I just allow myself to map the parts of him no one else seems to be permitted to touch.

All the while praying he lets me and doesn’t recoil and shut me out again.

His hands move then, slow, reverent, lifting until they find the bare skin of my thighs.

His palms are rough, calloused from a life I’ll probably never fully understand, but his touch is gentle.

Almost... cautious. I feel his thumbs trace upward, following the curve of my thighs until the muscles beneath them tighten reflexively.

My lungs stall, caught on the weight of him, but I don’t stop.

There is no part of me that want to.

And it seems, neither does he.

His large hands slide higher, just beneath the hem of my robe, where the fabric gives way to skin. My nightdress shifts with the movement, the silk cool against my back, and suddenly too much between us.

His hands are grounding, too real and too warm, but it’s the way he looks at me next that truly undoes me.

I lean back, just enough to meet his eyes. His stare is intense, burning, almost, but not possessive. Not lustful in the way most men look. It’s something else. Like he’s asking a question without speaking. Like he’s waiting to see if I’ll disappear.

I’m locked in his gaze, I couldn’t move even if I tried.

His hands stay on me, firm but unmoving. Holding me like I’m fragile and powerful all at once. Like if he touches me too hard, I’ll break, but if he lets go, he will.

My hands are still on his face, one cupping his jaw, the other smoothing back a piece of hair that’s fallen out of place.

I can feel the unspoken question vibrating in the air between us.

He’s still holding back. Still fighting a war I can’t see.

So, I lean in again, press another kiss to the corner of his mouth. Slow, unhurried...just a brush.

And that’s when I feel it, that palpable shift.

His hands slide higher, over the back of my thighs, until the fabric of my robe parts under his touch. The satin slips, revealing a flash of bare skin and the top of my red nightdress.

Ares freezes.

His breath drags in hard and sharp, and I feel his eyes on me, finally, really on me.

Then he rasps, low and broken, “Christ, bambina. You had to wear fucking red.” There’s a kind of admiration in his voice. As if the colour is more than just silk. Like it’s a warning and a promise all at once. My lips part, but no words come out. Because what is there to say.

His thumb brushes the edge of the robe at my waist, just beneath the loose knot. His voice is wrecked when he speaks again.

“I’ve been trying... trying not to look. Not to notice what you’re wearing since the moment you walked in last night.”

A shiver travels through me, from the way his voice sounds like it’s unravelling.

He keeps tracing the edge of the robe, slow and torturous.

“It would be so easy,” he murmurs, eyes burning into mine, “To pull this knot loose... watch it fall off your shoulders.” His fingers twitch, and my breath stutters.

“Watch the silk slide off your skin... and see what’s underneath. If it’s as exquisite as I’ve imagined.”