Page 40 of God of War

“Come here.”

15

Delaney

I want you, Delaney.

He said that, right? I wish I could slip back in time, rewind for a moment, just to make sure. My sneakers are welded to the carpet and Ares flicks his fingers at me, urging me closer.

I step up, shrugging off the strange tug in my belly. My crush on Ares is starting to be a problem. He makes me nervous, makes me feel exposed right down to the bone, and that makes me weak.

“What now?”

Ares squares up, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet. “Pretend I’m coming at you. What do you do?”

I let my fist fly. It’s sloppy, I know that as I start my swing, but I hope I’m quick enough to catch him off-guard. Ares doesn’t even flinch. He slaps my fist aside like it’s nothing.

“Hey! Ouch!”

“I said hit me, not flap your little hand in my face,” he shoots back. I back off, rolling my wrist and checking to make sure nothing’s broken. In truth, the only thing bruised is my ego.

“It’s not my fault you’re built like a fucking tank,” I grumble. Ares folds his arms over his broad chest, muscles bulging in his tight sleeves.

“Delaney, every guy who tries something with you is going to be bigger and stronger than you.”

I glare at him. “I thought you were teaching me how to defend myself, not batter my self-esteem.”

“I am.”

“You just said I’ve got no chance!”

Ares sighs. I’m glad I’m annoying him. It serves him right for slapping me. “Listen, you’ve got a chance,” he says. “You’ve got so many fucking chances. You just have to know what to aim for.”

I take a breath and give in. I raise my clenched fists, holding them in front of me like a boxer. “Show me what to aim for, then.”

Ares steps closer, pausing an arms length away. He reaches out and stops me from stepping back by closing a hand around my wrist.

“Any assailant, no matter the size or strength, has four vulnerable areas,” he says. His fingers glide over my hand, prying open my clenched fist and adjusting my fingers so that the flat of my palm is exposed.

I watch with a pounding heart, my breath tight in my chest, as he gently maneuvers my hand up, touching the heel of my palm to the tip of his nose.

“Nose,” he says.

Then he moves my hand down to his throat and tilts my wrist so that the point of my knuckles rub against his Adam’s apple.

“Throat.”

He takes my other hand and we stand toe-to-toe, my small hands enveloped in his large ones. He sweeps his thumbs along the ridge of my fingers, relaxing them to open, then firms up his grip on my splayed thumbs, so that I understand I need to keep them tense. He guides my hands to his face.

This feels like a bizarre flirtation. Touching me, moving me like some pliable doll. All I know is that I’ll never forget the movements he’s showing me, his confident arrangement feels fire-branded into me with each touch.

Ares’ eyes flutter closed and he presses my thumbs against his eye sockets.

“Eyes.”

He slides my hands to his shoulders, letting them find their natural grip there. He pauses, the air suddenly heavy. Maybe he realizes how close we’re standing. I know I’m aware of it. I’m also very aware of the tension in his muscles, how hard they are under my hands. I’m aware of the quickness in his breath, how his lips part just a little to let his tongue skim along his bottom lip.

With me still touching his shoulders, he settles his hands on my hips. My body tingles, heat building inside my chest and spreading out, out, out until my limbs prickle like kindling on a new fire.

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