The words come out in a rush, brittle and uneven, and as soon as they’re free, shame settles deep in my bones. I lower my eyes, afraid to see disappointment on his face.
But it never comes.
His hand withdraws slowly from beneath my body, not rushed, not bitter, justgentle. He shifts slightly, not pulling away from me, but not pressing closer either. When he speaks again, his voice is quiet, steady.
“You didn’t push me, Harper. I wanted to. I still do.” He exhales, his forehead dipping down to mine. “But that doesn’t mean we have to.”
He doesn’t ask what’s wrong. He doesn’t say Ares’s name. But it hangs there between us all the same, unspoken but felt.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper again, but this time the tears sting in the back of my throat.
“You don’t have to be.” He pulls me into his chest, letting my face press into the crook of his neck, his arms wrapping around me like shelter. “Not for this. Not with me.”
“I-I should have asked you if you were okay.”
Sebastian’s voice is low, oddly flat as he offers his hand and helps me out of the tub. His fingers are careful against my skin, avoiding every bruise with practiced ease, but I canfeel the tension coiled beneath them, just barely restrained. He doesn’t meet my eyes. He just holds the towel open and wraps it around me, like a soldier tending to a wound he doesn’t know how to name.
“Everyone is at risk now,” I murmur, voice hoarse. “No one is safe.”
The words sit between us like fog. They don’t land. Don’t soothe.
Sebastian’s hair is still wild from the water, clinging to his forehead in damp curls, and when he moves again, it shakes loose. He cinches the towel tighter around my shoulders, the motion quick, sharp. He doesn’t speak for a moment, but I can feel something shifting inside him. Some pressure building just beneath the surface.
“All of us knew the risk,” he says finally, “when we ran into those woods. Ares included.”
He pauses, his tone changing slightly, something colder, more pointed curling around the edges. “That’s who you’re worried about. Right?”
I turn my face away from him, unwilling to let him see how right he is. “I’m not worried about just him,” I start, truth already fraying at the edges, “I’m worried about all of you-”
He doesn’t let me finish.
“I should’ve killed him the second he finished pulling Liam out of the fire. Every time he shows up, someone dies. That’s what he brings.”
The words are hot, too hot, and they hit me wrong. Not because he’s wrong. But because hewantsto be right.
Sebastian’s grief has always taken the shape of anger, and now it curls through the room like smoke, unwelcome and consuming.
Frustration stirs in my gut. He wants to winthis moment. He wants me to admit I was wrong to defend Ares. That I’m foolish for trusting him.
“You’re right,” I say instead, my voice soft, steady, carefully hollow. I lie through my teeth to settle the fire, even as it burns deeper into me. “You’re right.”
He turns then, arms crossed over his chest, his expression skeptical, as though the calm in my voice doesn’t quite match the chaos he knows is still living behind my eyes. His brows lift, silently demanding more. He always sees through me, but tonight, I need him to believe the mask.
“People die when Ares is around,” I continue. “That much I know. I don’t trust him...if that’s what you’re worried about.”
Another lie. A bigger one.
I keep going. “I need him to get to my father. Nothing else. What happens to him after… that’s not my concern.”
There’s a flicker of satisfaction in Sebastian’s face then. The kind of cruel, quiet triumph people find when they believe they’ve won something that shouldn’t be a battle in the first place. He nods, almost to himself, and then, just like that, the fire fades.
He sighs, long and deep, the breath leaving him like something untwisting.
He steps forward again and pulls me against him without hesitation, his arms folding around my shoulders, his chin pressing lightly to the top of my head. I feel the tension in him ease as he exhales into my hair.
“Everyone has stakes in ending your father, Harper,” he says softly, though the grip he holds me with contradicts the gentleness in his voice. “You’re not carrying it alone.”
His arms grow tighter, as if he’s afraid letting go now would break whatever calm we’ve found.
