The words snap out before I can restrain them, sharp as a slapped hand. Frustration coils tight in my chest, urging me toward the door. I grab the handle with the childish hope that the simplest act, leaving, will rid me of him, of his gaze, of the mess in my head.
Behind me, Ares lets out a low breath that could be a laugh or a sigh; it’s hard to tell with him. “You know,” he drawls, “most people enjoy my company.”
I stiffen but don’t turn. “Well, I don’t.”
The lock gives beneath my fingers, then slams back into place so forcefully it vibrates up my arm.
Ares’s hand is splayed across the door beside my own, hispalm nearly swallowing the wooden panel. Before I can even gasp, his body closes in behind me. His other hand clamps over my mouth, the shock of it freezing me long enough for him to drag me back from the doorway.
“Quiet,” he breathes against my ear.
He moves with brutal efficiency, no wasted effort, no hesitation. One strong arm loops across my waist, not crushing but inescapably firm, pinning my arms to my sides as he steers us across the room. I struggle instinctively, twisting against him, and the movement forces the full line of my back against his chest. His breath stutters once, just once, at the contact before he tightens his hold and keeps pushing us toward the mirrored alcove.
The mirror ripples the moment his shoulder presses into it. A glamoured seam opens, revealing the narrow pocket of shadow tucked behind it, a space barely wide enough for the two of us to fit. He drags me inside and the mirror seals behind us without a sound.
We are pressed together now, no room, no air between us. His chest rises sharply against my spine with each controlled breath he takes, and the heat of him bleeds through my clothes. His arm remains locked across my middle, the muscle taut and coiled under my palms where they’re trapped against him.
I thrash once more, automatically, and the movement forces my hips against his. His body goes rigid, his grip tightening for half a heartbeat before he gets control of himself again.
“Be still,” he mouths rather than speaks, his lips brushing the shell of my ear.
Slowly, he removes his hand from my mouth, though his fingers trail along my jaw for a moment longer than necessary, as if warning me not to speak.
Footsteps echo in the corridor.
Then voices.
Two of them, older, cracked like ancient parchment.
The classroom door groans open.
“I smell Shadeborne blood,” the witch croaks, her tone thick with hunger. “Fresh.”
Ares shifts just enough to shield my sightline, but there’s a narrow sliver near his shoulder where I can see. Two figures glide into the room, their robes swirling with the oily shimmer of Shadeborne glamour. My father taught his followers that magic, blood-oath magic, binding them to him and rendering them unseen by anyone not of his line.
My stomach flips. Ares is bound by that same oath. That same blood.
The wizard crouches and brushes two fingers along the floor, where droplets of red remain from my torn palm and Ares’s earlier handling. “Parker’s too,” he murmurs. “Seems he’s been roughing up one of Andrew’s children again.”
Parker.
Ares Parker.
His family name.
Against my back, Ares’s heartbeat kicks, one violent jolt, before steadying again. His arm lowers a fraction, not releasing me, but shifting so he can angle his body more fully between me and the sliver of view. When I try to lean around him, his hand finds my hip without thought, fingers digging in just enough to hold me still.
The witch wipes my blood onto a handkerchief, lifting it to her nose with grotesque reverence. “That Parker boy is a slippery little bastard,” she rasps. “Andrew should’ve never trusted him to deliver his children.”
Ares’s breath flares hot against the side of my neck, the reaction barely contained. He presses closer, iron and fury and restraint all vibrating through him. His arm tightensuntil I can feel the tension singing through every tendon, every muscle.
Something in me trembles, not from fear, but from how inescapably, dangerously close we are.
This tight space hides nothing.
Not my pulse hammering in my throat.
Not his breath shaking against my shoulder.
