Whitlock’s study is guarded by a heavy oak door that isn’t locked, but we do lock it behind us. If anyone asks, Ares was taking me to cloud nine.
It’s a pretty typical office for someone with this kind of wealth. Bookshelves rise to the ceiling, gathering leather-bound volumes, alphabetically arranged like they’re in a real library.
I go to the desk and start working through the drawers, opening each one of them to look for anything that could help us. I do have practice from breaking into Ares’ office. But I prefer keeping my skills to myself to avoid him blowing through the roof.
We find nothing of use. There’s only standard correspondence and some business documents that aren’t related to anything with Kharon or Ares. But behind the computer monitor, a small silver frame catches my god’s attention. Whitlock is standing with the Valiant I attacked in the smoking area. The one I almost killed before he managed to tap out. Their arms are around each other’s shoulders; their glasses raised in toast.
“I didn’t know these two got along so well, at least not enough for Whitlock to keep a picture of them on his desk,” Ares mutters, like he’s onto something.
“I know this guy. I nearly got him in Kharon, but the loser tapped out.”
“He’s John Ashford, he holds enough political power to move people up the ranks, but keeps a low profile, working mostly behind the scenes. He’s probably just helping him become Senator.” Ares takes a short break as if to assess things. “I don’t like how this adds up.”
“Well, Whitlock was outside the smoking area where I jumped on Ashford’s back.”
“They might throw each other glances during the game, but they’re definitely not communicating. I’ve got eyes on them all the time,” Ares says, trying to hide the doubt in his voice. “This picture is a start, but doesn’t tell us the whole story. We need to keep digging.”
We start searching the room, but nothing useful comes up.“Let’s check the adjoining rooms,” Ares suggests after we exhaust pretty much every corner of the office.We head back into the main hallway to explore other rooms. We find bedrooms and guest rooms and even a small cinema room, though still large enough to host a football team. Ares opens one of the doors and stops without entering.
I follow and realize the space resembles a private museum, similar to what Ares has in his basement. Except these aren’t antiques.
Glass cases cover the walls, displaying weapons of all kinds. They’re not just firearms, but blades, dozens of them, arranged by size and type.Machetes, hunting knives, I even recognize several designs similar to the ones used in the game a few weeks ago. But this doesn’t make sense because none of the weapons are old. They’re not antiques. They're more like something you’d gather to start a war. Or at least, a decent rebellion.
“These weapons,” Ares says, like he’s measuring his words. “All of these weapons were used in different editions of Kharon.”The veins at his temples begin to stand out, a sign of the change, threatening to overtake him.
Maybe he had hopes that we were on a false lead again and that he couldn’t miss Whitlock right in front of him. That he wasn’t played by someone for a second time in a decade. I don’t think getting played is in Ares’ nature. But this display isn’t just an overly enthusiastic collection. It’s much more.
He turns to me, and for a moment, I think he won’t be able to hold back the darkness. His hand closes around my wrist, gripping tight enough to bruise.
“I’ll fucking burn this house if I need to, with everyone inside. Let’s go get him.”
eighteen
-Brynn-
I press my fingers against Ares' chest, feeling the rapid thundering of his heart beneath my palm. His rage radiates like heat, his skin nearly vibrating with the effort to contain the devil screaming to break the surface. I need to redirect this fury before he tears through the mansion and fucks everything up. "Not now," I whisper, my lips grazing his ear. "We need him alive and talking."
His jaw locks tight, his teeth grinding together as the veins at his temples pulse with the effort of holding back. For a moment, I think he'll ignore me, and I’ll have to pull some magic trick to stop him, like throwing my panties in his face. "Keep your calm," I continue, keeping my voice low. "We can't alert anyone. If he's working with others from Kharon, a bloodbath will send them scattering, and we’ll never find whoever it is that’s behind this." I say, hoping to get through to him. It’s not that easy to ask the God of War not to go after someone he’s set on killing.
Ares's honey-colored eyes flash with a dangerous darkness, but he draws a deep breath through his nose. "Fine," he finallygrowls, the word sounding like it had to fight to get out. "But I’ll rip him to fucking pieces afterward."
"Wouldn't dream of denying you that pleasure," I smile, reaching for his hand as we step back into the grand ballroom to slip into the crowd.
We scan the room, the string quartet has finished their performance. The guests are mingling again, the false pleasantries are flowing more than ever.
The next several hours are spentschmoozingwith the vermin scattered throughout this ostentatious house while we wait for the party to die down.
"I'll approach Whitlock," I murmur, adjusting the strap of my gown, making sure I show off myassetseven if that gains me a scowl from Ares.
"I'll tell my men to be ready. We’ll be taking out the guards once more of the guests have left," Ares' hand slides to my lower back, his thumb brushing against bare skin. "Be careful," he says, and something in his tone makes me glance up. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he’s jealous.
"Always am," I whisper just before disappearing through the crowd.
I spot Whitlock near the bar, engaged in conversation with a woman wearing enough diamonds to fund a small nation. I know from his file that he’s recently divorced, and very much available from what I can tell. I walk next to them slowly, watching him laugh at something she says, false, as everything else around us.
Nothing about him suggests a man with a private arsenal of weapons, but I've learned that the most dangerous predators often wear the most convincing disguises.
When the woman excuses herself, I make my approach, adjusting my gait to emphasize the sway of my hips. I've playedthis role before, the pretty distraction that promises nothing more than a few hours with no strings attached.
