“Did he hurt you?” My voice comes out low, deadly quiet as my hand slides to the back of her head, guiding her closerwhile I look over every inch of her, hunting for bruises I already know I’ll find.
Ares laughs under his breath, sharp and dismissive.
“You must take me for something much worse than I am, Harwood. Last time I checked, she can defend herself. She doesn’t need a guard dog.”
The words slice through my temper like a blade. I move Harper behind me in one smooth motion, my body a barrier between her and him before I’ve even thought about it. His expression shifts, subtle but unmistakable, interest sharpening, attention narrowing. He drags his leg back through the window, stepping fully inside the classroom, posture straightening with almost predatory amusement. His blue eyes lock on me with glacial stillness, cold enough to make every instinct I have bristle.
“I leave her alone for two seconds,” I say through clenched teeth, “and she’s bloody and hurt because of you.”
He scoffs again, infuriatingly casual.
“She could have said no to our deal, and I would have left it at that. But she, I, and even you know Andrew cannot be reasoned with. The only way to stop him is by harnessing a powershehas.”
He folds his arms across his chest as if lecturing a group of students rather than standing in front of the man who wants him dead.
“She’s not going to make any deals with you.” The words come out before I can stop them, possessive and instinctive. Wrong or right, it doesn’t matter. He is not touching her again. He is not standing this close again.
But Harper’s hand trembles as it reaches for my forearm. The tug is small almost apologetic. I turn to her, and the world narrows to her eyes, haunted and conflicted.
Her palm rises.
Ares’s does too.
A scar marks both.
My stomach drops.
“We made a blood oath,” she whispers, and everything in me goes still. “It’s customary in my house… I can’t jeopardize your safety. I will do whatever it takes to stop my father. Even working with someone like him.”
Shame curls cold in my chest. Fear follows. Not fear of Ares, but fear of losing her again, of watching her slip into danger because she thinks she must, because she thinks she’s alone in this fight.
Ares only watches her with something darker than amusement now, something sharp and hollow that might almost resemble disappointment, if he were human enough to feel it.
“To think,” he mutters, tossing his hands up in a mock display of heartbreak, “I thought you were finally warming up to me.”
My jaw sets. My fingers curl. And every instinct I have screams that this, this exact moment, is where everything begins to unravel.
The moment Harper’s words settle, the confirmation of the blood oath binding her to him, something snaps loose inside me.
Ares doesn’t flinch when I surge forward. He barely even shifts. My hand slams into his collarbone and I drive him back into the wall hard enough to rattle the glass vials on the shelves. The impact echoes through the classroom. For a heartbeat, satisfaction spikes, finally, a dent in that smug composure...but his smile only widens.
A slow, deliberate curl of his mouth, like he’s been waiting for this.
“Careful, Harwood.” His voice is low, almost appreciative. “You’ll start giving me the impression you care.”
My forearm presses harder against his chest. Magic pulses in my grip, instinct begging to be unleashed. He doesn’t resist. Doesn’t tense. Doesn’t defend himself. Instead, Ares tilts his head just enough to meet my eyes with a confidence that borders on taunting.
“As entertaining as this is,” he murmurs, “your anger isn’t the blade that will kill her father.”
The words turn my stomach. Harper moves behind me, quiet, breath trembling, and though I don’t look back, the awareness of her presence roots me to the floor.
Ares’s eyes flick toward her, sharp and hungry with interest. “And she’s already made her choice.”
That does it.
My grip tightens, magic rising hot beneath my skin, but Ares only laughs under his breath, a low, amused sound that grates like sand through my veins.
“You truly don’t listen,” he says, unconcerned as he touches two fingers lightly to the inside of my wrist. Not to pry me off. Not to defend himself. Just a reminder that he could, if he wished, but he doesn’t need to.
