My breath stutters. My fingers curl uselessly at my sides. My vision edges violet again, humming with the dangerous, rising thrum of power.
Ares’s smile deepens, not wide, not taunting.
Something darker.
Something like he’s witnessing the answer to a question he’s spent years asking.
“Wake up, Harper.”
His breath grazes my ear.
“Before he does.”
My magic surges hard enough to rattle the shelves, a violent hum crawling over my skin. Ares reacts instantly, faster than I expect, closing the distance and pinning me to the rack with the full weight of his body. His hands lockaround my wrists, slamming them above my head to stop the burst threatening to tear loose.
I twist, trying to wrench free from him, but he holds me easily, as though restraining raw, unstable magic is something he’s done a hundred times.
“Stop.”
The command scrapes low in his throat.
I refuse. The pressure beneath my skin only builds, vibrating upward, threatening to blow the entire room apart. Ares braces harder, one knee between my legs to keep me still, one arm tightening around my shoulders when I try to use my body to break free instead of my hands.
“Harper.”
There’s no gentleness in the way he says my name.
It’s a warning.
His chest presses flush to mine with every shudder of power pulsing through me. He grips my jaw, forcing my eyes to stay on his instead of tipping back with the surge.
“Breathe,” he mutters, though it sounds more like an order than a comfort.
“I said...let me go.”
“You’ll level the entire floor if I do,” he snaps back, breath hot against my cheek. “You’re not in control. And until you are-”
I jolt hard enough that it nearly dislodges him. Ares’s grip slips for a fraction of a second, but he recovers, pinning me even tighter. My vision tints violet, the energy crawling outward like cracks spidering across a glass surface.
He feels it, how the magic buckles beneath my skin, how close it is to breaking through. He grits his teeth, shoulders braced, arms shaking now as he tries to hold me still.
“You’re going to blow us both to hell-” he growls.
And then, as my magic peaks, he leans inso close the knife drags lightly against my throat again, reminding me with each heartbeat how breakable flesh is.
“Is this the part where we bond over your father’s obsession with beating fear into everyone he touches?” he whispers, mocking and cold. “Is this where you try to see some humanity in me?”
The words startle me enough that my magic falters, just a hair, and he feels the shift. His hold on my wrists loosens, not by much, but enough that the pressure between us changes. He lowers the knife just a fraction, breath steadying.
“I was sent here for one reason,” he continues, voice low and venom-smooth. “To deliver you to your father. I couldn’t care less if he strings you up by your neck outside his manor.”
The cruelty of it strips the magic from my lungs faster than any spell could. My breath hitches, not from fear but rage.
Ares notices.
He always notices.
“But,” he says, the word sharp as steel, “he took something of mine. And the only way I’m getting it back is by killing him. Which I can’t do alone.”
