“Well, considering you’ve been so forthcoming about who you actually are,” I say, mirroring his posture, “yes, the decision has been remarkably easy.”
His mouth twitches, annoyance or amusement, I can’t tell.
“Ask Liam.”
The name hits harder than it should.
“I tried,” I say quietly. “He won’t even look at me when I bring you up.”
Ares’s page-turning freezes. His grip on the potions book tightens ever so slightly. Then he lifts his gaze, anger simmering beneath the surface like something with fangs.
“Figures he’d be scared of the wrong person.”
He flips another page, snorts at whatever’s written there, and mutters something about “wasting education on useless brews.” The irritation pushes a reaction out of me, I pull my wand free, drag the book across the desk and toward me, putting it completely out of his reach.
Ares hums softly, like I’ve mildly amused him.
“Cute party trick.”
He stretches, arms reaching overhead. The hem of his black shirt lifts with the movement, revealing a flash of skin carved by old wounds, raised, uneven scars that look like someone gouged into him with purpose. Real pain.
“Did my father hurt you?”
The question escapes on its own.
For a heartbeat, something raw flickers across his eyes. Then he yanks the shirt back down as if he regrets letting the scars see daylight.
He moves before I can blink.
My back crashes into the potions rack, shelves rattling loudly as his hand fists the collar of my sweater. The other grips the hilt of a blade, and in a breath the cold edge is beneath my jaw, firm enough to command stillness, not yet enough to cut.
His face is inches from mine, breath warm, eyes bright with something twisted and controlled.
“Don’t assume you understand anything about what Andrew Shadeborne did to me.”
The knife drags just slightly, a warning, not a slice. My pulse stutters, but my magic… my magic surges upward in a hot, trembling wave. Not visible, not yet, but thick enough in the air that even he can feel it.
Ares’s expression shifts.
He leans in until the heat of him replaces the chillof the blade.
“There it is,” he murmurs, voice slipping low, nearly coaxing. “That spark you keep pretending doesn’t exist.”
Another pulse of magic cracks across my skin, uncontained, trembling with potential. The rack behind me vibrates again, bottles clinking against one another.
Ares doesn’t flinch.
He studies the way the energy ripples out of me, studies the way I fight it, fight him, fight myself. His head tilts, smile curling along one corner of his mouth. He looks hungry for something he refuses to name.
“If you can’t control this,” he says softly, “your father will.”
The knife presses closer again, not to threaten, but to test.
“And if you can…” His eyes glitter. “You might just kill him.”
Heat rolls through me, anger, fear, magic tangled so tightly I can’t separate one from the other. My chest tightens; the air feels too thin. He watches every flicker of struggle.
“Show me,” he whispers, voice nearer to reverent than cruel. “Show me what you are without that wand.”
