It's never required much effort because men are predictable creatures following their primary desire.
"Mr. Whitlock?" I purr, touching his arm just enough to feel intimate. "I've been hoping to speak with you all evening."
His eyes assess me from head to toe. Something he would normally do out of habit, followed by a flash of pure male appreciation. "I don't believe we've been introduced, Ms...?"
"Brynn," I respond, omitting a surname. I need to keep things casual. "I'm here with Ares tonight, but between us—" I lean closer, as if sharing a secret, “—I find these events so stifling.” I raise my hand to my lips, as if I’m trying to keep back a yawn. “And since I’ve heard you’re the host, I was wondering if you might show me those famous gardens I keep hearing about?"
From across the room, I feel Ares watching, tracking my every move. I don't look his way, but I know exactly what he's doing. He’s making calls to assure himself everyone is going to be ready when the time comes.
"Ah, you're Ares' companion." Something changes in Whitlock's voice when he pronounces Ares’ name, but I can tell he already knew who I came here with. "He surprised me by attending tonight."
I laugh, trying not to sound fake. "He rarely turns down an invitation from someone as influential as you." My fingers trail down his arm. "But I'd much rather enjoy the evening air than discuss business associates."
“So why not take your companion?” Whitlock asks, suspicious of my invitation.
“See that blonde in the amber dress?” I ask, shifting my gaze to a woman who I’ve noticed eyeing Ares the whole night, and who has just started walking his way. “He’s been paying a little too much attention to her,” I lie, since Ares didn’t even notice sheexisted, except for probably some mental note he made about everyone attending. “And if he pays attention to others, then he doesn’t deserve mine.”
Whitlock hesitates, then nods, offering his arm only after taking a second to assess me from head to toe, making sure I'm worth the effort. "The gardens are particularly lovely this time of year. There's a gazebo overlooking the cliffs that provides quite the spectacular view."
Perfect. Isolated, away from prying eyes. I take his arm, letting my body lean slightly into him. "Lead the way,” I say, hoping I can convince myself not to turn around and deal with the blonde who just approached Ares.
As we move toward the terrace doors, I sense rather than see Ares' men moving through the crowd, and I notice a few guards are already missing.
It’s started.
Whitlock leads me onto a stone pathway illuminated by soft landscape lighting. The gardens are trimmed to perfection, stretching before us, as flowering plants create winding paths. The air smells of salt from the nearby ocean mixed with night-blooming jasmine.
"You have exceptional taste," I murmur, letting my fingers trace gentle lines on his forearm. "Everything here is beautiful."
"I appreciate beauty in all its forms," he responds, his eyes lingering on the false exposure of skin where my dress meets the mesh.
I feel Ares before I see him, his presence enveloping me more than the night’s air. He's following us at a distance, making sure I’m safe.
We approach the gazebo, a white wood structure perched near the cliff's edge. The ocean spreads dark beyond it, like a perfect frame to create a masterpiece.
"So, are you from Seattle?" Whitlock asks as we step into the gazebo. "I know Ares travels a lot."
"So you think he brought me along like a souvenir from the places he visits," I ask, moving to the railing to admire the ocean at night. In reality, I need to position him with his back to the entrance.
"I meant no offense. I was just curious."
"I’m no one's souvenir," I assure him. "I’m with him for the fun. Nothing more," I say, opening the door just enough to make him think getting into my bed isn’t impossible. "But my idea of fun isn’t him spending time with another woman." The wounded lover card works all the time. "Especially since it’s not the first time he’s done it."
Women are vulnerable when they feel hurt. An easy path to any man who, in any other situation, doesn’t have the gut to approach someone like me.
I lead the conversation to where I want to, trying to stall so that everyone gets in position. Women can complain for hours about their partners, giving way for opportunists to take their shot.
Just when he considers I’m most vulnerable, he steps closer, his body angling toward mine, leaning in either to kiss me or whisper some indecent proposal. Either way, it looks bad from where I’m standing. It seems, from where Ares is standing, too, because he emerges out of nowhere, fire in his glare, fists clenched like he’s about to murder Whitlock.
One moment, Whitlock is opening his mouth to call for help, the next, he's silenced by Ares' hand clamping over his face. The bastard’s eyes grow wide with terror as he realizes what’s happening. That he’s not actually going to be getting laid tonight.
"You know what I hate most, Whitlock?" Ares whispers, his voice carrying the promise of agony to come. "Traitors."
We drag Whitlock back through his own house, following the shadows and unsecured areas.
Ares keeps him silent with pressure on his throat. It’s just enough to prevent screaming, not enough to cut off his air completely and accidentally kill him. The man's expensive shoes scrape against marble floors, leaving faint scuff marks from the useless effort of fighting Ares.
I lead the way through empty corridors, the party dying in the background as we return to the room that sealed Whitlock's fate: his personal arsenal of death.
