Ares leans against the doorway, arms folded as though holding himself together. His gaze rakes over the room but avoids settling on me too long. “It’s a bond forged by blood magic.” He says it like a curse, jaw tightening, eyes darkening with something unspoken. The fading wounds along his ribs prove that my blood is still working through him, pulling him inch by inch away from the brink.
“Explain to me how we have a bond made by my father when you’ve only been in my life briefly.” The challenge comes out before I can stop it. Althea snorts into her drink, some concoction thick and red, her laughter soft but edged, as if she’s finally losing her grip on restraint.
“I really wish I could explain it,” Ares murmurs, and the look he gives me is drenched in longing he never lets linger. “But I can’t.”
“This is insane.” Althea’s voice takes on a frantic rhythm. “The fact she’s sitting here speaking to you without ripping her own eyes out is already miraculous.” She waves her glass toward me with an unsteady hand. “Unity ties override instinct. Override everything.”
Ares scoffs under his breath. “Confusing is an understatement.”
Althea’s attention snaps to me. “You sent a Raven to Liam?”
“Yeah. He won’t be here until later tonight, maybe tomorrow. It’s a long flight.” My voice softens as my head begins to spin again. I grip the edge of a nearby chair, the dizziness washing over me so quickly it feels like a tide pulling me under. Althea rises immediately, reaching for me, but Ares is already off the wall, already closer, his hands half-extended as if he isn’t sure whether he’s allowed to touch me.
“I’m fine,” I lie, lifting my shirt. The gash at my side is angrier than I expected, red, swollen, irritated from neglect. Ares’s eyes narrow, and Althea is already searching for something among her jars and vials.
“I’ve got something for that.” She presses a small container into my palm. “Use it anywhere that hurts. And there’s a bathroom in Ares’s room, you can see what you’re doing in the mirror. I’ll have him find something clean you can wear.”
My throat tightens. “Thank you.”
She gives me a look, like she’s waiting for a memory I can’t give her. “My room’s behind the green door if you need anything. Ares knows where everything else is. And… Harper? It’s good to see you...even like this.”
Somehow that reality breaks me.
Ares opensthe door to his room for me, stepping aside with a restraint so unfamiliar for him it makes my chest twist. The bed is neater than before; the photograph box is set carefully on a chair. As though he can’t bear to look at it but wants to protect it all the same.
“I’ll find you something comfortable,” he says quietly. “I’ll leave it under the door.”
I give him a small nod and slip into the bathroom, shutting the door with a firm click. For a moment I stand there, staring at my reflection, willing the fragments of memory, of truth, to push through the haze, but nothing comes. Only a hollow ache behind my ribs.
I undress slowly, peeling away blood-stiffened clothes until I’m left in nothing but underwear, my skin mapped with cuts, bruises, and the fading marks of battles I never meant to start. The sight makes something inside me crumple. I slide the last pieces off, stepping toward the warmth of the bath. The water stings every open wound, a sharp cleansing pain that forces my breath into short bursts. I lower myself until the water envelops me, tilting my head back, letting the silence swallow everything. My fingers brush down my ribs, nothing but sharp bone beneath thin skin, then upward over my stomach, my chest, my neck. It all feels foreign, fragile, like I’ve been living in a borrowed body.
Tears slip free without permission. Quiet at first, then faster. I dunk my head under the water to muffle the sobs, holding myself there until my lungs burn. When I resurface, I curl forward, pulling my knees to my chest, shaking so hard the tub quivers with me.
Three soft knocks break through the noise inside my skull. I look up with blurred eyes, wiping my face with the back of my hand.
“I found a few things that should be comfortable enough to sleep in,” Ares says through the door, only opening it afraction. A stack of folded clothes appears on the counter. His head stays turned deliberately away from the angle of the mirror, away from me.
“Thank you, Ares.” My voice betrays me with a tremor. I hate how exposed I sound. I hate how much he must hear in it.
He hesitates, just for a heartbeat. A shift of his posture, a breath caught in his throat. Then he pulls the door closed again, leaving the clothes between us like a truce neither of us asked for and both of us desperately need.
And for a very long moment, as I sit trembling in the warm water, all I can do is wonder how many pieces of myself he’s already tied to his. And how many pieces of him are already tangled in mine.
Warm water slips off my skin in rivulets as I pull the drain, watching it swirl away as if it can take my exhaustion with it. It doesn’t. I reach for the clothes he left behind, soft black shirt, loose grey pants, and try to steady my breathing. Getting dressed becomes its own small battle. The shirt catches painfully against the wound on my side, forcing a wince out of me, while the pants slide on with merciful ease. My wet hair clings to my back, dripping steadily against the cooler air of the room.
Althea’s tin of cream waits on the counter. I twist the lid off, the scent of lavender and mint hitting me sharply, oddly calming, oddly nauseating, nothing like something meant to heal. I scoop some onto my fingers and attempt to smear it along the torn skin, but the moment it touches the tender edge of the wound, white-hot pain slices through my ribs. The scream I want to release lodges itself in my throat. My forehead falls against the counter, breath shaking as I pound the surface once, twice, a frustrated growl rising out of me. I should never have let it get this bad. That’s on me. All of it is on me.
“Harper?”
Ares’s voice is quiet, careful, right outside the door.
My hand stays clamped around my side. The pain fogs everything.
“Ares…” My voice cracks. “Can you come in here?”
The knob turns. He steps inside, shutting the door behind him with a gentleness that only highlights how broken I must look. His eyes land on me, my hunched posture, the blanching around my wound, the sheen of exhaustion that no bath could wash away. Something flickers across his expression, unreadable but heavy.
“I can’t-” My voice fractures. “I can’t keep applying that cream. I need help.”
