Page 46 of Make Me Hunt
But for now, she wants things easy. So, I’ll start with that.
I push back from the table.
Dinner is officially over.
nineteen
-Ares-
Something got seriously fucked up from the way I was imagining this evening. I wanted answers, but now all I want is to be inside her. To feel her body against mine, her ragged breath, her pulse so close to my own. The pull of our bodies is too undeniable, like a magnet drawing me in, making it impossible to stay away.
I push the table with my foot, not giving a fuck when the glasses clink against the wood, shattering into pieces. I’ll take care of it in the morning. Now there’s something else I need to take care of.
My lips go to meet hers, my hands already at her back, unclasping her bra. She takes a second to register what I’m doing, caught off guard by my unexpected move, but she recovers quickly enough. Her lips respond to mine, her own hands rushing to unbutton my shirt, fingers fumbling on the buttons much more clumsily than she really is.
I was sure she was going for my zipper next, instead she slipped from my arms, crawling on the couch to get to the light switch that’s on the pillar behind her.
I follow her on instinct, like the predator inside is fully on guard, lifting myself on the couch until she’s trapped beneath me. Her hand wiggles in the air as she kills the light. I don’t even know how she spotted that light switch there. “My guards won’t come here. They know better than to disturb me,” I whisper, flicking the lights back on. “I want to see you,” I lift her shirt, impatient to see my mark on her—so fucking beautiful.
But before I get the proper chance to fully explore her body, she slips from my arms again, turning off the light. And maybe I would’ve let her have it her way—rather than blow what could be a spectacular fuck—but as she stretches to get to the switch, I spot a dozen silvery marks slashing across her rib cage.
Scars.
Not random but meticulously placed there.
I flip the outdoor light back on, my blood boiling—not with passion, but bubbling with unconstrained rage. And before I get to lift her T-shirt, she flips the switch again, plunging us into darkness.
“Don’t play with me, Brynn. What the fuck is this?” I snarl, slamming the switch and yanking her back down on the couch, so that she can’t reach it anymore.
This time, I do raise her shirt—with or without her will. I need to see what the fuck that is on her body.
“Cut it out, Ares. I’m not in the mood.” She tries to push me away, like she suddenly had a change of mind and ripped sex off the table.
Her words barely register as the image of the scars is etched into my mind, even as she moves on the couch, trying to keep me from seeing her body.
I turn her around, even though she fights me, trying her best to stay out of reach. Now I know she’s got something to hide. So that leaves me with no choice but to rip the shirt off her. I don’t care if she wants it or not, I’m going to see how many more scars she’s hiding. Because I know I won’t find peace until I've mapped every inch of her.
She tries to push me away again. Not that I care. I’m driven only by the sound of ripping fabric, my hands pinning her in place as my eyes scan her body.
What the fuck is this?
I can barely control my breath as I take in a couple of dozen scars across her ribs down to her belly. And as she thrashes against me, I think I spot a few on her back.
I know I saw a few scars the night I marked her, but I figured they were just random ones from different fights or even from training. If she’s got the balls to go after a mafia family alone, then she’s got enough fighting skills to back her up. That kind of power takes great effort. And last time I took her to bed, she fought me hard enough to convince me that she might hold her own in a real fight against most of my men.
But now that I look at the scars, none of them are longer than an inch. All so similar, like they were carved with the same weapon.
Not meant to kill.
Meant to torture.
“Who did this to you?”My voice comes out rough, words almost grating with wrath, like I can barely hold it together—like the voice doesn’t belong to me anymore but to something darker crawling out from inside.
The world around me becomes a haze, a dark veil sliding over my mind, heightening every sense. But mostly, my lust to kill. I want to rip the bastard responsible for those scars to pieces, then feed them to him. But first, I need to know who the hell is responsible for this.
And Brynn isn’t answering.
She’s still trying to cover herself. Her fists clenched around what’s left of the fabric, hiding the scars I’ve already seen.
