Ares is asleep at my feet, breath shallow. His shaved leg is wrapped in gauze and surgical tape, a reminder of his time at the vet clinic.
“Is he okay?”
Her voice taints the air between us.
I don’t turn my head. Just blink. Once.
“Don’t.” It’s flat and hard. A command I don’t mind backing up.
She flinches, but her eyes stay on mine. She always does that–stares with those big brown eyes, like she’s trying to peel me open, figure out what’s underneath. It pisses me off.
But worse? It excites me. It reminds me of the way she looked at me other times–sprawled back on her bed, perched on her knees, in the reflection of a mirror.
But that was before her reckless actions tried to destroy everything I’d earned and care about: Ares, DK, and the Barons as a whole.
I stand. Ares stirs slightly, but doesn’t lift his head. The key is already in my hand before I’m at the door. The lock clicks as I disengage it.
She doesn’t move until I nod.
Then she stands–slow and controlled. Like she’s pretending it doesn’t hurt to stretch. Like she still has some dignity left.
She steps out barefoot, wearing a white shirt that is too long for her. The hem hits high on her soft thighs, and beneath it, cotton shorts ride low. I don’t look at her skin. I don’t look at the faint outline of her nipples pressing against the thin fabric of her shirt.
I don’t.
Except I do and fuck, I get hard. Sex and touch and reality have always been difficult for me. What’s too far? What’s safe? What feels good. Right now, I’m angry. I can’t forget the fire and the blood and DK screaming for help. I can’t forget carrying Ares out of that inferno barely alive.
But I also can’t forget the way she looked when DK was fucking her, slamming her hips into the porcelain of the bathroom sink. DK’s fingers toying with the metal in her tits, his other hand on her throat. The sounds she made–raw, desperate, real.
She hated it.
Or did she?
I’d ask her, but she’s a liar. A killer. A goddamn curse. That name? Hexley? It should have been a tip off. And that’s what I have to remember more than anything else, that she’s deadly, ready to use a knife or strike a match at any moment.
I toss a bundle of clothes at her feet.
That gaze never leaves mine. "Where are we going?"
And that’s the thing. For all her craziness and impulsivity, her risk and recklessness, she’s ours. She’ll do and go and be whoever and wherever we want.
I let a stretch of silence beat between us until it’s a wire drawn tight.
“To see if you can be of some use.”
Then I turn. She’ll follow–I’m sure of that–I just don’t knowwhich Arianette it will be: the one that is loyal to the Barons or the one that wants to burn us to the ground.
I guess we’ll find out.
Just outside the cage, she starts changing, her chin lifted high like she’s daring me to look away. I don’t. She’s lost the privilege of privacy, and I’ve lost the will to pretend I care about sparing her.
The new choker catches my eye–black leather, a small silver pentacle resting against her throat. The King’s mark–both a collar and a warning.
The metal bars in her nipples glint in the light. I assess them–for DK–he’ll want to know that they look like they’re healing. Her movements are quieter now, almost meek as she slips into the jeans and pulls the Forsyth hoodie over her head. Nothing seductive about it, and still, it gets under my skin.
My loyalty is clear. The King wants information; we’ll use her to get it. That’s the job. That’s all this is supposed to be.
I hand her a pair of boots.
