Blood spatters in sharp arcs across his face, streaking his cheekbones, soaking the dark strands of hair clinging to his forehead. His breathing is ragged, feral, fueled by a rage so focused it almost hums.
Poppy stands several yards away, trembling but still casting finishing spells at the last stragglers. When the clearing finally settles into silence, she gives Ares a fearful nod. Then her gaze shifts to me and her face crumples.
Ares is already turning.
He drops into a crouch at my side,movements abrupt with adrenaline. His hand slips beneath my shirt before I can protest, fingers brushing the torn flesh. Fresh blood wells up instantly, bright against his skin. His jaw tightens, a muscle feathering hard and sharp beneath the smear of red across his cheek. His gaze darts over the battlefield, fallen bodies, broken traps, trampled dirt, but finds no solutions.
His frustration builds.
The pressure of his hand on my side spikes the pain again. I try to push him away, but my palm only meets the strength of his wrist.
“It’s fine,” I rasp, though the sting of the lie hits even me. Poppy inches closer, hands pressed over her mouth.
Ares ignores the protest entirely.
He catches my wrist, not roughly but with a finality that leaves no room to pull free. He pins it to the ground beside me, then does the same with the other before I even realize he’s moved. His weight brackets my hips, his arms forming a cage above me, not trapping, but anchoring.
His eyes find mine. The battle-frenzy is fading, but intensity lingers beneath the surface.
“We’re cauterizing it,” he says, voice low, steady, completely resolved. He glances toward Poppy and flicks his chin toward her wand. “Heat spell. Right on the wound.”
The world tilts. My pulse thrums painfully against my ribs.
“I can handle it,” I grit out, more pride than truth. The tremor in my voice betrays me.
Ares leans in, close enough that I feel the heat of him through the blood drying on his skin. His breath fans across my cheek; the scent of pine, steel, and violence clings to him, grounding and dizzying at once.
“I know you can,” he murmurs, voice edged with something fierce. “But you’ll thrash. And if you tear it open again, you won’t make it back to Vireldan.”
There’s no pity in his tone, just unwavering certainty.
Poppy steadies her wand, though her hand is trembling.
“Now,” Ares says softly.
The spell hits.
A scream tears out of me before I can swallow it down. The heat sears into the open wound like a brand, stabbing deep into muscle. My back arches violently against the dirt, but Ares is already pressing me flat, his full weight settling across my thighs and ribs to stop me from jerking upright.
The pain tunnels the world. My ears ring. My breath flees my lungs entirely.
It’s too much.
Too much pain.
Too familiar.
Suddenly the forest is gone.
It’s not Poppy’s wand.
It’s my father’s.
It’s not a wound being sealed.
It’s a punishment repeated.
It’s nights of being dragged from bed.
