Page 78 of Bonds of Pain
“Ares,please.”
I stare at the screen, mortified as the evidence of my unconscious desire plays out before me. My throat tightens, making it hard to breathe as I watch myself seek out Ares’s warmth, my body acting on instincts I’ve been fighting since the moment I arrived at the palace.
“Turn it off,” I whisper, unable to watch anymore.
Ares reaches around me, his arm brushing mine as he taps a key. The screens go dark, but the image is burned into my memory.
“That still doesn’t make what you did okay,” I say, turning to face him. The sheet slips down my waist, and I clutch it tighter. “My body reacting while I’m unconscious doesn’t equal consent.”
Something shifts in his expression—a flicker of actual remorse. “You’re right.”
His admission catches me off guard. I expected more smugness, more justification.
“I am?”
“Yeah.” He runs a hand through his curls, suddenly looking less sure of himself. “I got carried away. I thought...” He shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter what I thought. I should have woken you up first.”
The sincerity in his voice throws me off balance. This version of Ares—vulnerable, admitting fault—is more dangerous than his usual cocky self. It makes him seem human, relatable. Someone I could actually care about.
I can’t afford that.
“Just don’t do it again,” I say, standing up. The movement brings me closer to him in the small room, our bodies nearly touching.
“I won’t.” His eyes darken as they travel down my sheet-covered form. “At least, not until you ask me to.”
The question hangs between us, heavy with possibility. Part of me—the traitorous, primal part—wants to say yes, to lean into the heat building between us. To let myself have this one thing that feels good, even if it’s wrong.
But I remember my purpose. I’m here to survive, to find a way out. Getting entangled with Ares would only complicate things further.
“Don’t hold your breath,” I say, stepping around him toward the door.
His low chuckle follows me. “I’m not like Logan. Taking more than you’re offering doesn’t really interest me at this point, not when all we have is time to make this work. I want you to actually want me.”
The slightly stricken note in his voice makes me turn to look at him. But by the time I see his face, whatever emotion he might have revealed is carefully hidden behind a sardonic smirk.
“Ares…” I trail off because I have no idea what to say.
“I’m willing to wait until you come to me,” he says softly. “Something tells me it won’t be as long as you think.”
I’m saved from responding as his attention returns to the terminal and he shuts down the monitors that still display video feeds from around the apartment.
The existence of the cameras doesn’t surprise me, even if the audio capability makes the invasion of privacy that much worse. Of course, they would monitor every inch of this gilded cage, recording our most intimate moments without consent. It’s exactly the kind of violation I’ve come to expect from this pack, this palace, this life. They control everything—my heat, my body, my future—why not my privacy too?
But a warmth spreads through my chest at Ares’s words about waiting for me, about wanting me to want him. The sincerity in his voice was unexpected, almost believable. For a moment, I allow myself to feel the pleasure of being desired on my terms, not just claimed or taken.
I know that feeling is a weakness that Ares will eventually figure out how to exploit. Which is why I do my best to ignore the heat of his skin where it meets my bare shoulders or the comforting sweet decadence of his scent surrounding me, as I watch him fiddle with the terminal. I need to focus on something significantly more important.
Like committing his passcode to memory.
Chapter Twenty
MAYA
Despite the lack of an official announcement, word of Logan’s new position as heir has already filtered through court. Invitations for meetings and events have come pouring in, enough that I almost miss the days I spent locked in Logan’s bedroom in the aftermath of my heat. I only had him and Cillian to deal with then, at least.
Instead, I find myself standing in the corner of a full ballroom surrounded by people I don’t know.
I hold the empty champagne flute like a shield, wishing I could disappear into the gilded wallpaper. The room buzzes with aristocratic chatter in the sharply perfumed air and the clinking of crystal glassware. These people have spent lifetimes perfecting the art of polite conversation while sliding daggers between ribs. I’ve spent barely any time in the palace, and already sick of the spectacle.
