Poppy holds her breath again, shrinking back, sensing she’s witnessing something she should never name.
Ares’ gaze drops, just briefly, to the dried blood at the heel of my palm. Then slowly, carefully, he lifts his eyes back to mine. His stare is heavy. Too steady. Every part of him is still, but not calm. More like a locked door with something violent and brilliant smoldering behind it.
“And don’t pretend you came out here alone because Poppy asked,” he adds, voice even quieter.
The air thickens.
The trees around us seem to lean in.
My pulse trips over itself, traitorous and loud.
He’s not taunting me now.
He’s naming something I hadn’t said aloud.
Something I hadn’t even admitted to myself.
Poppy shifts her weight, her fingers twisting anxiously again, as if trying to make sense of what she walked into.
“A-Are we… going?” she whispers, voice pitched too high, too fragile. Her eyes dart between us like she’s expecting one of us to crumble or explode.
But Ares doesn’t break the stare.
Doesn’t pull back.
Doesn’t give me an inch of space.
He waits, like he wants to hear whatever excuse I’ll muster, and wants to catch me in the lie the moment I speak it.
The wind pushes through the clearing, stirring the leaves around our feet, but the heat between me and him doesn’t budge. It only coils tighter, hotter, until breathing feels like something I’m doing for his benefit, not mine.
And when Poppy shifts again, nervous, hopeful, trying to wedge herself back into the moment, Ares finally speaks.
His voice is quiet.
But the truth in it lands with the precision of a blade.
“Next time,” he says, eyes never leaving mine, “don’t pretend you didn’t want me to find you.”
33
HARPER
The forest swallows sound the deeper we go, a damp quiet that clings to our ankles and wrists like cold hands. Shadows hang thick between the trees, a living curtain that narrows our visibility to only a few feet in any direction. Every exhale comes out white in the chilled air, and the leaf mulch beneath our boots squelches from the constant drizzle the canopy can no longer hold back.
Ares walks ahead with the map held loosely between two fingers, its ink smudged beyond recognition in places, the parchment so damp it curls inward as if trying to protect whatever markings remain. He studies it anyway, eyes flicking to it and then back to the vague path carved through the forest floor. His wet shirt clings to his shoulders, outlining muscle and movement with every stride. More tattoos wind up his arms, half-washed vines of ink blending with scars that glint faintly when he shifts. I hadn't realized the extent of either until the robes came off. Poppy had showered him in so many compliments he eventually rolled his eyes and stripped the drenched garment off with a muttered curse, though the faint lift at the corner of his mouth betrayed the fact he didn’t hate the attention.
Moisture beads along the tattoo on my own collarbone. Ares noticed when I pushed my hair back earlier. His stare lingered for a fraction of a second, just long enough to feel like a thumb grazing skin, before he looked away, expression sealed shut again.
The silence stretches until I finally break it.
“How did you hear about these poachers?”
Poppy launches into her explanation, words bubbling out in little bursts of concern and poorly contained excitement. “Tavern talk in Anavris. Some drunk warlocks bragging about scoring big while holding up Narclux feathers. Everyone knew they had to be Shadeborne men…”
Ares snorts, a low exhale of disdain. “Which really means they’re Andrew’s men.”
The statement hits deeper than it should. It sinks somewhere low in my stomach, where old memories still rot. My father’s reach is spreading again. More towns. More people terrified into silence.
