Page 35 of Bound By Flames
I spent years of my life in a house where I couldn’t fight back because the punches I got were always stronger than me. But here, with Ares, I know in my bones he won’t hurt me like my parents did. I see it in the way he looks at me, in the way he stayed with me during my episode, how shaken he looked after he realized what he had done.
With him, I can be…myself. And the thought of that makes the hair on my nape rise.
He’s not trying to change me or humiliate me by pointing out everything that is wrong with me. I know he’s sorry for what he did, not that I’m forgiving him, but… I can see he cares, and he’s willing to wait for me to cool down until I’m ready to come back to him.
He saw me, the real me, and he’s not running away.
Why?
Yesterday, I woke up entangled in something hot and heavy. As if leaves and branches had been running under my arms and legs and kept me glued to the mattress. A scent of musk filled my nostrils and I realized that I had entangled myself to Ares unconsciously during the night.
Gosh, was it the first time?
Flushed with embarrassment and probably also because I was angry at myself for not pushing him faster after realizing what I’d done, I shook my head. I needed to leave this place before things got to me before I created a mess I couldn’t walk away from.
Ares would never give me the love and the home I was so desperate for. His attempt to test me the night of my episode was proof of it. We were too different to exist in the same world. Maybe my father would let the threat of Kiara go if I stayed legally married to Ares without living with him.
Perhaps that was the answer to all my problems.
Yes, that’s what I needed to do.
Ares
So fucking pretty and so fucking mad.
That had been the face of my wife for days now.
Oh, she was mad.
But fuck, if that wasn’t entertaining to watch. She had bought so many stuff, she made Ash and Shadow carry it all to our house, thinking it would piss me off. It didn’t. At all. And the look on her face that night, damn, I almost wanted to saysomething just to make her disappointed pout disappear. That was adorable.
What I was not expecting was the fucking festival of tiny silky things she’s been sleeping in since her shopping spree.
So many fucking colors.
So little fabric.
And the worst is I bet she doesn’t even realize how it affects me. Probably think I’m seeing other chicks from the club, strippers, and barmaids, all too eager to please me with their lip rings, tattoos, and flashy clothes. Thing is, and it’s been fucking with my head for weeks now, but since marrying Mia, the thought of touching another woman has been making me want to gag.
Literally.
I tried. Believe me, I tried. Took a blonde to my office, a pretty one, a stripper from a club we own on the other side of town, but the moment she touched me, I pushed her away and sent her back where she came from. It didn’t feel right. She asked me if she could try again, terror in her eyes as she knew she was facing the hand of death. The girl was terrified, but I guess it was a good thing; it meant my reputation was intact.
Anyway, I would have never hurt her ‘cause I don’t do that to women, but since then, I haven’t tried again. Didn’t want to put another girl through this and make her wonder if I was about to shoot her in the head because I wasn’t pleased or some shit.
I’m a psycho, but only for the one who deserves it.
So instead of breaking off some much needed steam with other women, I’ve been on edge. And I fucking mean it. I had to spend an hour at the gym each morning on my punching bag just to remove the sweet face lingering in the back of my mind with her sultry voice and sinful lips.
My brothers are barely talking to me since I’m snapping back at them like a lion who’s been denied his kill, baring my teeth at anyone who talks to me.
“You okay, Prez?” asks Shadow as he walks past the punching bag where I’m training. We’ve got a massive gym at the club, machines, weights, and everything you could ever need to train for martial arts. And an octagon. Of course. Gotta have one when you host fight nights every month.
“Time to plan a fight night,” I grunt, punching the black leather with intensity.
“Sure, when do ya want it, boss?” He crosses his arms.
“Next week.” The slap of my fist echoes around us while metal blasts in the background. “Pick me a skilled guy. I’m tired of knocking them down before the first round.”
