Page 31 of Violence and Vice

She lays his hand back on the bed and backs up a step.

“That’s it?” I question, raising an eyebrow.

“I don’t know what else you want me to do, Lana,” she says, a little attitude rising in her tone. “That’s how I did it. I don’t know what you’re expecting me to do when he’s not even conscious.”

I glare at her, hating that this is where we are, and knowing it will never, ever go back to the way it was between us. I could never forgive her. And she so obviously has lost every ounce of respect for me.

The sound of footsteps approaching draws my eye to the doorway. Five seconds later, Florence steps into the vault, followed by Clementine.

The moment Florence lays eyes on Ares, she sucks in a ragged breath through her nostrils. Her face pales. She tries very, very hard to keep her expression composed.

She takes it all in. The cuts on him, the bruises. The furrow between his brows. Even unconscious, he doesn’t look at rest.

Florence’s eyes flick up to meet mine. "Thank you, Lana," she whispers, voice thick with barely contained emotion. "Thank you for finding him."

“Always,” I assure her, a solemn vow.

Clementine watches the scene observantly, assessing every movement, every moment like it’s all made of glass.

Which it is.

Florence’s eyes flick over to Ophelia, and she’s always been a smart woman. Florence immediately figures out that it was Ophelia who did this to her brother. Something shifts in her expression.

Before I realize what’s about to happen, Florence crosses the vault toward Ophelia and slaps her across the face.

The crack of the impact echoes through the vault.

Ophelia staggers back, her hand flying to her cheek, her eyes wide with shock. A startled scream escapes her lips.

"You did this to my brother," Florence says, her voice quiet but cutting like glass. "You turned him into a weapon and pointed him at people you decided should die. And then you told him to end his own life. The self-righteous are always the worst people in this world, and you’ve placed yourself in their ranks, you selfish coward."

I’ve never seen Florence like this. She’s always been powerful and intimidating but gentle, warm. But right now, she looks like she could kill Ophelia herself.

Suddenly, Ares stirs, and all our attention snaps back to him. A low, guttural sound escapes his lips, his fingers twitching.

We don’t have time for speeches for justice.

"Everyone out," I order. "Sysco, Harry—wait outside."

Sysco looks like he wants to argue, but one look at Ares, and he just nods. "We’ll be right outside."

Florence hesitates. "Lana, you should?—"

"I’m staying."

She clenches her jaw but doesn’t fight me on it. A moment later, the heavy vault door shuts with a loud clang. It’s just me, Ophelia, and Ares now.

Ares’ breathing is ragged, his muscles tense as he fights consciousness. Then his eyes snap open.

My stomach drops.

His pupils are blown wide, his expression feral. He lifts his head, sniffing the air, his gaze snapping toward the vault door. "Sysco," he breathes. "Harry."

He moves, a blur of power and instinct, lunging for the door. I barely get out of the way in time. He slams his fists against the metal, the impact shaking the entire vault. His growl is animalistic, violent. He’s not thinking—he’s acting purely on the command Ophelia planted in his head.

Fuck. Oh, fuck, it didn’t work, not even a little bit.

"Ares!" I shout, standing and taking a step toward him. "Look at me. Please, look at me."