He doesn’t need to.
43
HARPER
Itrail after Ares through the streets of Anavris, keeping just enough distance that I can watch him without being obvious about it. He walks with that unhurried, predatory grace of his, like he’s carved from something older than the buildings he passes. Several women turn their heads as he goes by, openly staring. One even steps aside just to get a better look at him. He ignores all of it, gaze skimming rooftops, doorways, the shadows between carts. He’s scanning, assessing, counting threats that most of us will never see.
I catch my own reflection in a window and immediately look away. There’s no trace of the soft glow he somehow saw in those sketches. My face looks drawn, tired, hollow. Nothing like the girl he rendered, if it even was me he saw.
“I know a place just a few buildings down,” he finally says, voice low and controlled, never needing to rise for me to hear it. He motions with a slight tilt of his chin toward a deep blue building with a chimney puffing thick white clouds into the darkening sky.
I fall back into step behind him, letting the rhythm of his stride set mine. He stops at the door, pushing it open with his shoulder. A sign hangs beside it, the white paint chipped but readable:Maggie’s Baked Goods. A wave of warm, sweet air hits me full in the face, vanilla, cinnamon, something buttery and rich enough to make my stomach twist with hunger.
Inside, a woman stands behind a pastry case, her grey curls braided down her back, flour smudging her apron. Shelooks up when the bell chimes and adjusts her glasses, the corners of her mouth already tugging with amusement.
“So you do have acquaintances?” she asks, directing the words at Ares with a knowing grin.
Ares gives the faintest lift at the corner of his mouth, barely a smile, but enough to make my pulse trip because of how rare it is. “I told you doubting me was a fool’s game.”
She snorts. “Mm. I’ll believe it when I see it.” Her gaze slides to me, sweeping down my frame and back up, sharp and warm and mischievous all at once. “How much did he pay you to pretend you can tolerate him for more than ten minutes?”
Heat flares across my cheeks as I force a polite smile. “He didn’t pay me anything.”
Ares leans forward against the counter, fingers curling along the edge, forearms flexing under the sleeves he refuses to roll up. His smirk grows, deliberate and wicked. He’s enjoying this.
“You actually dragged that pretty thing in here without holding a knife to her?” Maggie cackles. “Your conversation skills must have improved in the last few months.”
The cruel irony of how Ares and I met flashes through my mind, and a strangled laugh escapes before I can stop it.
“She’s senile,” Ares mutters, deadpan. “And old.”
Maggie whips the towel off her shoulder and smacks him in the arm. A cloud of flour bursts over his coat. He bares his canines in a grin, sharp and unguarded. It reaches his eyes. I’ve never seen that before. It does something to my chest, tightens everything in a way I don’t have language for.
“Since Ares refuses to remember his manners,” Maggie says, turning to me with a theatrical sigh, “I’m Maggie. And you’re about to try the best cinnamon roll in Anavris.”
She extends a floured hand toward me, her smile wide and glinting with pride.
“I’m Harper,” I say, taking Maggie’s warm, flour-dusted hand. Her grip is sure, grounding, almost motherly. She beams at me before bustling behind the counter, pulling pastries from warm trays with the practiced motions of someone who’s turned sweetness into a craft. The cinnamon roll she sets aside for me is enormous, its icing dripping in glossy ribbons. My stomach answers before I can, loud enough that Ares’s brow lifts.
“You want your regular?” Maggie calls to him.
Ares slips his coat off and tosses it over the back of a chair, sleeves sliding halfway down his forearms. “Always.” He digs into his pocket for coins and sets them on the counter, already motioning toward a small table in the corner. My bag sits on the floor beside the chair he’s chosen. The sketchbook buried inside it feels like it vibrates against the leather, as if it knows whose eyes keep drifting toward me.
Ares drops into his seat with a loose, practiced elegance, rolling up his sleeves to his elbows. The tendons and veins along his forearms ripple as he nudges the chair opposite him away from the table with his foot, a silent command, not rude, just… expectant. I sit.
“How did you and Maggie meet?” I ask as Maggie plates the pastries with delicate precision.
Ares leans back, resting an elbow on the arm of the chair, eyes flickering between Maggie and me. “My dad used to send me into town for supplies. I wasn’t exactly eating well back then, so I got good at slipping things into my pockets when I needed to. I thought stealing from an old woman would be easy.” His expression twitches, as if the memory embarrasses him despite everything else he’s done.
Maggie returns with the plates and a steaming mug, cutting him off with a scoff. “I caught him in about five seconds. Nearly scared the boy into passing out. Told him I’d send him to lockup.”
Ares smirks into his coffee, the faintest warmth unfurling in his features. “After that, I came back… actually paying for things. Turns out she was giving me half the shop at a discount.”
“Only because you looked like a starved alley cat,” Maggie mutters fondly, patting his shoulder before drifting away.
“Thank you,” I murmur to both of them, overwhelmed by how normal, how human, this all feels.
Ares tears a piece off his massive blueberry scone and pops it into his mouth, watching me like he’s waiting for a reaction.
