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“Why?”
“Because I like to see you filled with fear. I want to see you cry,” he admits. “It makes me hard. It makes me want to steal your tears and drink them up.”
“You get off on scaring girls?” I challenge, pressing my palms against his chest, needing air that’s not filled with Ares, but he doesn’t move.
“I get off on you,” he confesses in a grave tone that has my wanton thighs squeezing together. “I want to see you lose all control. I want you to fight back, to claw at me while I make you scream my name. I can’t stand the fact that I’m not meant to want you.”
“Why are you not meant to want me?”
“Because your father did something to my family, something so atrocious, my father retaliated, and now we’re even. And it doesn’t matter what I do, I can never get a taste of you.” His words cause more confusion than before. I thought I would get answers, but with every confession, all I have are more questions.
I’m not sure why I do it, why I lean up and allow my lips to touch his, but I do it anyway. Heat spears itself through me like a lightning bolt attacking my senses. Ares groans when his tongue darts out, licking at the seam of my mouth.
I want to open for him. I want to allow him inside. But I don’t. It’s a tease, a taunt to see how far he’ll take it. I feel his mouth curve into a grin against mine.
“Teasing the predator isn’t a good choice, little flower,” he hisses through clenched teeth. Every word is like fuel sparking the fire inside me, stoking it, and making it burn brighter.
“I told you, I don’t scare easily,” I respond with my own gritted out promise. “What if you’re the prey in this situation?”
His hands, strong and warm, grip my wrists, pinning them above my head against the cold, concrete wall. His hardness presses against my thigh when he pushes his body along mine, holding me hostage and in place.
“Is this what you want?” He questions, lowering his tone further until it’s barely a whisper. But it doesn’t matter because every word is a match, lighting me up. “You like it when I take it. Don’t you, flower?”
“No.”
“Oh?” He tips his head to the side, his eyes narrow regarding me as if he’s trying to draw out the truth, but I don’t give it to him. “So, if I put my hand in your panties right now, your pretty pussy won’t be wet?”
Ares shoves his thigh between mine, the thick muscle pressing against my core, elicits a whimper of need to tumble freely from my lips. The sound makes him smile happily when he notes how much he actually does affect me.
“Mmm,” he hums along my jaw, “I think my little flower is ready to be plucked.” His mouth suckles on the sensitive flesh of my pulse point. The thrum is erratic and wild. His fingers dig into my wrists, hard and relentless.
I can’t help but shiver when he pushes his leg against me once more, and there’s no doubt that my panties are soaked.
“Tell me what happened between our families?” I ask, in hopes of him releasing me. Perhaps if I take his mind off the heat emanating between us, he’ll focus and give me more than the tidbit of information he’s already said.
“War, cruel fucking war,” he bites out the words my gran used, which sets me on edge.
“What?”
“You heard me. What do you think comes with war, little flower?” He questions and the answer drops like a lead weight in my stomach. In this intimate position, I learn slowly what he’s trying to say without uttering a word. I know what happened. The one thing I’d been dreading to hear.
With war comes death.
23
Dahlia
“My father wants to see you,” he mutters when he pulls away from me. I’m still tingling from head to toe. A reprieve of cool air wafts through the cracked door, and Ares stares at me for a long while.
“Why?”
“I’m not sure.” He shrugs, attempting a nonchalance that doesn’t calm my nerves, and the knot that’s forming in my stomach turns tighter with every passing second. “Look,” he says, glancing at me, running his hand through his hair once more, causing the dark strands to stand in every direction. I find myself wanting to smile at the mussed style, but I focus on his words instead. “I believed a lot of things before you arrived; even when we first interacted, I thought…” He sighs, turning away from me, and I reach for him, wanting to know what’s going on.
“Ares,” his name is soft, a whisper of want, of confusion, and of need. “Please talk to me. I don’t… I’m not sure why… Fuck.”
