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“That’s not fair,” I attempt to defend myself because this is clearly an attack. But I’m not sure there’s anything I can say that will make this better, and the fact that I’m already aware of that should be a flashing neon sign. “Today is the first time I’ve danced since we flew home from London.”
“And why are you dancing today, Grace?” He moves into the studio and over to the sound system, where he pushes buttonsuntil he finds a song he likes. “Your mom has great taste.” And the way he says it holds an edge he’s not bothering to hide.
“She does,” I agree hesitantly.
“You gonna answer my question?” he pushes, and I want to scream,No.
Because he’s not going to like any of my answers.
I’m not even sure I like any of my answers.
“What was I supposed to do?Hmm? My mom called in a favor to get me the audition. Was I supposed to skip it?Thanks, but no thanks?The world of ballet isn’t that big, and I’m not Margot Fonteyn. I’m replaceable. Pretty sure Jenkins did it in an hour. I couldn’t risk pissing off one more director.” I take a tentative step toward him, and then another until we’re toe-to-toe, and I touch him. The only thing... the only person who grounds me.
I press my palms against his chest and beg for him to understand. To see it my way. “She thought she was doing me a favor.”
“Because”—his voice becomes harshly quiet—“you never told her how bad your injury was. Why are you so worried about disappointing someone that you’d risk your own health instead of being honest with them?”
“It’s not like that,” I argue, and he laughs, so damn angry.
“Tell me how it is, baby. Because I see you, even if you can’t see yourself,” he argues, so pissed he makes it easier for me to feel rage instead of guilt.
“I’m a professional. I’m at the top of my field. I know how far I can push myself before I break. And I’m not breaking,” I tell him, letting anger fuel me now.
“You’re already broken, and you don’t even see it,do you? When was the last time you did something you wanted to do, Grace? Something that was just for you?”
“I’m standing here with you. That’s just for me.You’re just for me, god of war.”
He makes a sound in the back of his throat, and a fiery fury burns behind his eyes. “Yeah. I guess I am, since you’ve been lying to everyone in your life about me anyway. Fuck, Grace. We’re almost two months past London, and you’re still not standing up for yourself. And what’s worse is I’m letting you do it.”
He holds my face in his hands and shakes his head as I stand, frozen in place. “Do you love me, Gracie? Because I’m so goddamned in love with you, I’ve lied to everyone I care about. For. You. I’ve snuck around like a fucking kid because it’s what you asked. Because I love you.”
He waits for an answer I’m so damn scared to give him.
Not because I don’t feel it.
But because I don’t know how to give him what he wants.
He’s not asking me to put him first.
He’s asking me to put myself first, and I don’t know how to do that.
So I stand in front of him, silently begging for more time.
But Ares takes my silence as an answer in itself.
“Wow. I’m not sure how I missed it,” he almost whispers. “Man, I guess I really am the idiot everyone thinks I am.”
“You’re not,” I try to stop the accident happening in front of me, but it’s so far past the point of collision, I’m practically standing on the sidelines watching someone uselessly perform CPR.
And because he’s my god of war, he smiles a cold, calculated smile. “It’s okay, Grace. What did you say in London? We never made each other any promises, right?”
“Ares...” I try to say more, but the words don’t come.
“When’s your audition, good twin?” He runs his hand up my neck, only it feels different. Indifferent. And I think that’s worse than his anger.
“The end of the week,” I whisper, and this man I love just shakes his head and presses his lips to my forehead before he steps back.
“Good luck.”
