Maggie stands there expectantly. “Go on now.”
I cut into the cinnamon roll, breathing in the molten warmth, letting the bite melt across my tongue. It’s soft, sweet, rich enough to make my knees go weak. I don’t even have words. My eyes flutter shut as a ridiculous sound escapes me, half sigh, half groan. When I open them, both Ares and Maggie are covering their mouths, trying not to laugh.
“I’ll let you and that cinnamon roll have some privacy,” Maggie teases, squeezing Ares’s shoulder as she heads back into the kitchen.
Ares raises his brows at me. “If it’s too much, I can take some off your hands-”
My hand snaps up and smacks his away before he finishes the sentence. “This is the best thing I’ve ever eaten.”
His smile is small but real, curling at one corner as he finishes his coffee. When he stands to refill it, the hem of his sleeve shifts just enough for something black and inky to peek through, another tattoo, curling up his upper arm in smooth, deliberate lines.
He notices my stare before I can pretendotherwise.
“I have many more visually pleasing tattoos, if you’re curious about those too,” he says, voice low, amusement tugging at the underside of his words. The smirk is subtle, but it lights something hot and unsteady in my stomach.
My face blazes. The cinnamon roll suddenly turns to molten lead in my throat. He watches the flush rise up my neck, his gaze traveling over me with a quiet, dangerous patience, as if he’s cataloging every shade of red I turn for him and storing it like a secret.
Sugar glitters across the table like scattered frost, a tiny metal cup of cream waiting beside it. Without thinking, I reach for two packets and slide them toward him as he sits. Something about the gesture feels instinctive, familiar in a way I can't quite justify.
“I have one as well,” I murmur, still tearing off a corner of my pastry. “It hurt like hell.”
His eyes, however, aren’t following my words. They’re fixed on the sugar packets. Perfectly still.
A pulse of uncertainty presses behind my ribs. “What’s wrong?”
He doesn’t look away from the sugar. “Why did you hand me these?”
The question should be simple, but it sends my thoughts scattering like startled birds. “I… assumed you take sugar in your coffee. That was probably silly-”
His hand lifts. A quiet halt. Not dismissive.
“You’re right,” he says, voice softer than before. “I do take two sugars. I forgot to put them in last time.”
He tears them open, pouring the grains into his coffee with mechanical precision. Watching him, I sense words lingering behind his tongue, but whatever they are, he swallows them down with the turning of his spoon.
His attention shifts back to me. “So this tattoo that ‘hurtlike hell’… I’m assuming it’s the one on your back?” His fingers motion toward my shoulders.
I nod, tasting cinnamon and something far heavier. “It’s a serpent. I got it to draw attention away from… other scars. As long as the tattoo was the thing people stared at, they didn’t look at what my father did.”
My fork points at him, unwilling to let vulnerability stretch the silence too thin. “What about you? Where are your other tattoos?”
A small, sharp smile cuts across his mouth as he pops another bite of scone. “I don’t think a bakery is the most appropriate setting to show you all my tattoos.”
Heat detonates across my cheeks so violently I almost choke. “I-that’s not-I didn’t mean-”
He stretches back in his chair, arms folding behind his head, shirt riding up just enough to reveal a sliver of toned skin and, beneath it, faint angry lesions hidden along his ribs. The glimpse is fleeting, but the image brands itself into my mind before his shirt falls back into place.
When I look up, he’s already watching me.
“I never thought you meant anything inappropriate,” he says, finishing his scone with infuriating ease. “I just think it’s funny how easily you get flustered.” His smile sharpens again, those damn canines flashing with wicked delight.
“Ares has a sense of humor?” I counter, grateful my voice doesn’t shake.
He scoffs, amused. “I like to think I’m one of the funniest people I know.”
“Really. Hard to imagine you as the life of the party.”
He leans forward slightly, gaze dipping into mine as if he means to press straight through me. “I can have plenty of fun, Harper. You just have to know me well enough to see it.”
