Page 14 of Shadowed Bond

His eyes narrow. “What?”

“Attachment. Love. Fear. Devotion. Those are the things you are describing. You said women are a weakness. You’re afraid of attachment, of your own emotions attaching to a woman.” I hold his gaze. “Not women.”

His jaw tightens. “Seems like I hit a nerve, Arden. Drop it then; you’re the one who asked why the fuck I don’t attend the balls.”

“No, I’m not going to drop it. You speak as if women are simply a pointless distraction,” I continue. “As if fate creates us solely to sabotage alphas from their grand duties.”

“That’s not what I said.”

“It is what you meant.”

“No,” he growls. “What I meant is that every man I know with a mate would lose his fucking mind if something happened to her. Jayce. Renji. Dad. Grandad. Any of them. That kind of bond is fucking dangerous.”

“It isn’t; it’s called living. You could ask any of them, and they would tell you that they do not regret them – and don’t regret the life they are living.”

“Course not, they’re too whipped. But love makes them vulnerable.”

“It makes them happy, content, and it’s something most people want to experience; only a coward would run from it.” The words leave me before I can soften them.

Ares stares at me.

The headlights of the passing cars should make him look less dangerous, but they do not. His eyes are sharper now, glowing a dangerous silver as his wolf surfaces; irritation burns beneath the surface, but there is something else there, too. Something guarded, buried beneath his arrogance.

“You done?” he snarls.

“For now.”

“Good.” The word is spoken through gritted teeth as if that settles it, but it doesn’t.

For a while, neither of us speaks, and I wish I could push the thought out of my head. Women are not weaknesses; we are the ones who bring men into this goddamn world. Without a woman, there is no man.

I should not care.

I have heard worse. Far worse. Men have looked at me and seen my surname before my face, my family before my choices, Arden before Charlotte. They have assumed pride, privilege and betrayal are inherent in me, whatever suited their opinions of my bloodline.

Ares is not the first man to reduce people to what he fears; he is merely louder about it.

Still, the words sit badly in my mind.

“I stand by it. You’re wrong,” I say quietly.

His eyes remain on the road. “Didn’t ask, nor do I fucking care.”

He glances at me, but I keep my eyes ahead, refusing to look at him.

We fall into a tense silence, and he ends up putting the radio on. I don’t pay attention to whatever discussion is taking place and watch as we get closer to the old Desert Storm Pack.

“There should be a track ahead,” I say, breaking the silence between us.

Ares glances at me. “Should be?”

“The sat nav won’t show it, but we need to take it to get to the pack. So, slow down and keep an eye out for it.”

He doesn’t respond, but he does slow the car, watching the hedgerow until the headlights catch the narrowest break between the trees. It is barely a track, half-hidden beneath low branches, but it is there.

Ares turns into it without argument. The car jolts over gravel and mud, branches scraping lightly against the sides as the trees close in around us. The rain continues drumming against the roof, and the further we drive, the less the world feels ordinary.

The headlights catch a broken sign ahead, rusted and half-buried in weeds, marking private land and an old crest, half-buried by the layers of dirt that have gathered over the years.