Page 183 of Lovely Venom

He’s arrogant, self-serving, and unnecessarily cruel, meddling in people’s lives like it’s a form of entertainment. So when I said those words, I meant them. And when I registered the hurt on Chantel’s face, it only made me more defensive of my position.

The thought that she might have any sort of affection toward Ares felt like a betrayal. But I never could have imagined that she might be related to him.

Now, I recognize that, in her mind, everything I said about the Stavros family applied to her too.

I’ve never felt like more of an asshole.

“Chantel—”

“Wait,” she pleads, a note of panic threading through her voice. “I want you to hear me out before you say anything else. I’ll tell you everything.”

Fear lingers in the depths of her eyes, and I’m certain it’s because she’s afraid we can’t come back from this.

I want to reassure her that everything will work out, but the truth is, it isn’t entirely up to me. Her being Greek presents far more complications than I ever anticipated. Without an agreement in place, marrying her out from under them would be a declaration of war.

Ares watched from the sidelines as I walked right into this trap. And while Chantel might believe that she’s free from her old life, I don’t think she realizes the power he holds over her. He wouldn’t have enjoyed this development so much if he didn’t already have a plan.

In addition to the inevitable groveling he’ll take far too much pleasure in, he wants something in return.

The odds are pretty good that it revolves around Mariella, but I won’t know until I talk to him.

So for now, I lift Chantel into my arms and carry her down the hall.

“Where are we going?” she asks.

“The library.”

She releases a breath and nods against me.

I’m certain this will be one of the most difficult conversations she’s ever had. I doubt she’s ever really opened up to anyone about her past, at least not fully. I want her to have something else to focus on besides me.

She doesn’t need to worry about what I’m thinking while she’s laying herself bare.

Once we’re inside, I settle her onto the cushion and drape a blanket over her before I strip off my shoes, pants, and shirt.

It’s already late, and we’ll probably end up sleeping in here. But I also need her to know I’m not leaving as soon as she tells me what I want to hear.

I lay on the cushion beside her and pull her close, resting her head on my chest so she can look up at the night sky.

“Where do you want me to start?” she asks, a nervous energy pulsing through her.

“It’s your story to tell.” I comb my fingers through her hair, studying her in profile.

She takes a minute to think about it before she begins.

“I want you to know that I didn’t come here to ruin your life. I came here to escape mine.”

I stay silent, my palm sweeping the length of her back as her gaze turns distant, and her past slowly unfolds.

“I grew up in New York,” she says. “My mother was Ares’s aunt, and she married my father when she was only eighteen.

“He wasn’t a good man. I think she shielded me from a lot of it, but I know he used to hurt her. I’d hear her crying at night, and I’d see the bruises. She wanted to leave him, but she never made it out.”

She closes her eyes, and a rogue tear tracks down her cheek.

“After she died, my father had little use for me, so he told the housekeeper to find activities that would keep me busy. She signed me up for as many dance classes as she could, and that became my life for the next twelve years.”

“When I was old enough, my father arranged a marriage with Damian Christopoulos.