“You have no idea what torment is,” he murmurs, voice hollowing out as he looks past me, somewhere far beyond the alley. “Imagine years of seeing the pers-”
His throat locks. He cuts himself short, inhaling sharply as if the next word might slice him open. The hand he lifts to his neck trembles before he replaces the mask over his face.
“What just happened?” I ask quietly, pointing at my own throat where his voice had faltered.
“We’re losing daylight,” he says without answering, already turning toward the alley’s mouth. “We need to train.”
“No,” I press, moving after him. “Ares, how did you know my favorite color?”
His entire body stiffens, a rigid, violent halt. He doesn’t turn. Doesn’t breathe. Doesn’t blink.
“What are you talking about?” His voice is flat. Too flat.
I kneel, ripping open my bag until my fingers find the smooth edge of leather. The sketchbook. I stand and shove it into his chest. He catches it automatically, flipping through the pages with growing alarm.
“Where did you get this?” His voice is sharper now, cutting through the space between us.
He stops on the drawing of me, the flower behind my ear, the softness in my eyes I don’t recognize. The inscription inked beneath it. His shoulders tense like the words themselves wound him.
My heart hammers. His breath stutters.
And for the first time since meeting him, Ares looks shaken.
“It doesn’t matter, how do you know-” The words barely pass my lips before Ares cuts the space between us. He drops the notebook, closes the distance in two strides, and grips my chin in a hold that’s firm but not cruel. His fingers press lightly along my jaw, tilting my face up until his eyes lock onto mine with startling precision.
“Where did you find this?” he asks, voice low and stern enough to freeze my breath.
My throat dries on instinct, everything in me tightening. “Under Sebastian’s bed.”
The reaction is immediate. Something sharp and gutted flashes across his features before he rips himself away from me. He paces, short jagged strides that scrape tension into the air. Then without warning he slams his fist into the brick wall. The crack echoes through the alley. Dust showers down. He stares at the cratered bricks like they offended him personally, pulling back a bloodied hand that trembles before he forces it still.
He drags in a breath, shoving his hair out of his eyes, the movement frantic and unsteady, nothing like the controlled, composed boy he performs in front of everyone else.
“You can’t go back to Vireldan tonight,” he says, voice strained.
“What? Ares...no. You don’t get to throw that at me without explaining. I need answers.” My voice shakes despite my effort to hold it steady.
He stares at his bleeding knuckles before speaking. “The last place I saw this sketchbook was in my room. In your father’s new manor.”
The words land like a blow. Cold.
“Why would Sebastian have it?” I whisper.
“I don’t know.” He shakes his head, jaw locked. “But it doesn’t matter. Nothing your father does is by accident. This-” he gestures to the notebook lying at our feet “-is a message.”
My skin prickles. “What message?”
His answer comes slowly, reluctantly. “That your father no longer has faith in me.”
He crouches, grabs the sketchbook, and flips to one of the pages. His expression hardens as he reads the scrawled threat, then he presses the notebook into my hands without looking at me.
“We’re playing by his rules now,” he murmurs. “No more promises.”
He leans back against the wall, letting his injured hand drag down the side of his throat, pain flickering across his eyes as he stares down the alley like he expects someone to step out of the shadows.
I lower my gaze to the page, breath stuttering as the words come into focus:
Times up, Parker.
