“Elias,” he repeats, and his name in Ares’ mouth seems wrong. He doesn’t deserve to say his name, and right now, I’d cut out his tongue just to make sure he never repeats it again. But then, his hazel eyes narrow for a second, like he’s a damn computer running through an internal database. His stance straightens as he turns his back on me and walks toward the door. “I am a god.” His hand pauses on the handle. “I remember the faces and names of everyone I’ve ever killed. So, unless you’re talking about Elias Abrahams in 1998—a known sex offender selected as a player after repetitively molesting his sons—your whole little charade was for nothing.”
I don’t have time to answer or even process the information properly before he disappears down the hallway, leaving behind a trail of unanswered questions and a seed of regret to settle deep within my chest.
seven
-Brynn-
I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, like if I look at it long enough, the pieces of the puzzle will finally fall into place.
He can’t be right, can he?
Ares killed Elias—I know he did. There was the sword wound. The timing. All clues lead straight to Kharon and to Ares.
Maybe Elias used a fake identity, as I did. That’s certainly what must’ve happened. There’s a high chance of that. Ares probably was his killer, he just doesn’t know it.
Though there’s that shadow of doubt. Thatwhat ifAres really didn’t kill him, that hope planted in my heart, hiding in every corner of my soul from the moment I understood Ares—the man.
It’s too late to follow him now. I already heard the door closing behind him as he made it back into the house, and I’m too tired or maybe too proud to go after him.
What if?... What the fuck if?
I stare at the ceiling for another half-hour, trying to rethink everything that happened. I mean, even if Ares didn’t kill him, his game did.
Why the fuck didn’t Elias just go after someone else, or choose a different kind of investigation? Not something as dangerous as this.
It’s been two hours now, and I still can’t sleep. From the way my heart is racing, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to sleep. Not until I find out the truth. I’ve got nothing else to lose anyway. I’ve already lost myself.
It’s only a matter of abandoning my ego and admitting that there’s a chance I was wrong.Could I be wrong? Fuck, I’ve never wanted so badly to be wrong in my entire life.
I get out of bed and make it across the hallway. The effort even greater than before, the limping even more obvious, and it’s not just because of my leg. My entire body is sore. The right kind of sore. The intoxicating kind.
Ignoring the shards of glass that still cover the stairs, I make it up and check the door that leads to his house. Of course, it's locked. But that doesn’t stop me from knocking again. Harder this time. Louder. I’m not gonna leave until he answers. Until I get my answers.
I need to know what really happened. I need to know I haven’t been chasing a false lead for almost a year... Or maybe in a way, I wish I had.
I knock again and again. And a-fucking-gain. He’ll probably have to kill me to stop me, because I can’t live with this uncertainty any longer.
“Ares, open up. I know you’re there.” I call out, my forehead leaning against the door.
There’s no answer. I knew there wouldn’t be. But I also know I’m not giving up. “Ares, we need to talk….” The same silence settles after the sound of my own voice.
I go on and on until I find myself saying something I never thought I was capable of. “Ares… please.” I don’t remember ever asking anyone for anything. I don’t mean demanding. I reallymean asking. Sure, I’m polite enough to answeryes, pleasewhen someone asks me if I want my order to go, or if I want my ice cream in a cup, or on a cone, but I don’t remember ever sayingplease. Not when I was passed from foster family to foster family. Not even in my days at the asylum.
Yet I’m doing it with him, because I feel a weight pressing on my shoulders that’s going to kill me if I don’t find out the truth. That gets me to say it again. “Please,” a word that’s never belonged in my vocabulary.
Somehow, I think Ares knows it, because it turns out to be the magic word that opens the damn door.
I straighten my stance when I come face-to-face with him. I wanna be brave, but right now he looks so imposing, his sharp eyes lack any emotion, maybe even shadowed by a trace of disgust. That only makes me feel even smaller, maybe even more broken than I truly am.
He steps aside and makes room for me to enter the hallway, then starts walking toward the living room without even glancing back.
I follow him at a much slower pace, but I can’t fight the feeling that I’m a puppy he just let out of their cage. I was so sick of being down there and watching the same walls for all those weeks that even this damn hallway feels like freedom.
He takes a seat on the couch as soon as he enters the living room. I follow, but choose to set a little physical distance. I take the armchair, even if he didn’t invite me to sit. I can’t stand for too long anyway.
Ares grabs a laptop that was sitting on the coffee table, his jaw tight with anger, his temples pulsing, muscles twitching like the devil inside is crawling beneath his skin, raging to be set free. Raging to consume me.
“Start talking,” he grunts, opening the laptop, like he’s giving me an ultimatum.
