Page 45 of Bonds of Hate

Giggle to myself, I know that I sound more than a little crazed. I’m probably talking to myself because I have officially lost my mind.

Being left here with no instructions is worse than being told to do something awful. If Cillian had ordered me to lay spread-eagle on the bed or kneel on all fours with a lamp on my back like I’m an end table, at least I’d have something to focus on.

Dark hardwood floors extend through the open concept dining and living area to a recessed nook where a massive L-shaped leather couch faces a fireplace big enough to roast an entire elephant. Above it hangs an abstract painting in shades of gold and crimson that is probably worth more than my recently paid off debt to the Enclave.

I shuffle further into the apartment. My bare feet leave clear impressions on the plush area rug. Several doors line the wide hallway and most of them are closed. One bedroom door stands ajar, revealing glimpses of an enormous bed draped in charcoal silk sheets. A faint scent emanates from the bed that I can sense, even from the doorway.

It’s more complex than I expect and not at all unpleasant. Sea salt and driftwood, like a place where the mountains meet the sea. I wonder which one of them the scent belongs to.

My cheeks burn at the thought that I’m probably going to find out soon enough. I spin away, turning my focus instead to the next open door.

It’s a bathroom large enough to make me gasp. To one side, there is a shower that could easily fit five people, with multiple heads protruding from black tile walls. A sunken tub roughly the size of a small ponddominates the center of the room before a massive window overlooking the palace gardens.

I can just make out the blurred shapes of carefully maintained topiaries and hedges.

“At least they had the decency to frost the glass,” I murmur to myself.

The last door at the far end of the hallway is just barely cracked, only a sliver of light visible through the narrow opening. I push it open, only to face a set of rickety stairs descending to a lower level. The steps end on a concrete floor and I can’t see anything beyond that without going down them.

The faint sound of music carries up the stairs, something with a thumping bass line that makes the ground under my feet shake. An alluring smell wafts up and into my nostrils, something darkly decadent but surprisingly sweet. Like a bourbon and chocolate-flavored cupcake with a sprinkling of bacon bits on top.

My stomach rumbles in anticipation at the thought. I haven’t eaten anything in almost twenty-four hours. For allof his comments about my inadequate body fat percentage, Cillian didn’t bother to offer me lunch.

I didn’t pass a kitchen while snooping through the apartment. Maybe that is what I’ll find down here, a cheerful chef bopping along to music as they offer me a freshly prepared dessert.

But what are the chances that anyone keeps their kitchen at the bottom of a rickety set of stairs?

Otherwise, it’s a literal horror movie scenario. I’ve never been one to sympathize with the dumb virgin in a slasher flick, but now I almost get it. The curiosity is overwhelming, even as every brain cell I have screams for me to shut the door and run back to the relative safety of the empty living room.

Where I’ll only have the oppressive silence for comfort.

I tug at the thin robe as I make my way down the stairs. The hem barely hits my mid-thigh and I’m not wearing anything underneath it. The soft cotton offers little warmth against the noticeable chill that comes over me as I get halfway down the stairs, meaning I have to be somewhere underground.

Or maybe it’s just nerves making me shiver.

The basement opens into a large room with bare concrete walls and rubber training mats scattered across the unfinished floor. Exercise equipment fills the space: weight racks, various machines, and a boxing area complete with hanging bags and a ring in the corner. The thumping music comes from speakers mounted high in each corner where the walls meet.

There isn’t so much as a cupcake in sight, but that isn’t even the worst realization.

Ares stands in the center of the room, his back partially facing me. He has his fists wrapped in white tape as he hammers at a heavy bag with precise strikes, each with enough force that it would send me flying across the room. Muscles ripple and tighten in his back with each hit, sweat glistening on his skin under the bright track lights. Cinnamon curls bounce against his forehead as he dances on his toes, moving with way more ease than a man his size should be capable of.

The music is loud enough to muffle the creak of my footsteps on the stairs. His body angles away so he won’t see me unless he turns to look behind him. The training bag has all of his focus as he pummels it, lip curling into an angry smirk as if he is imagining a specific person taking the beating he delivers.

If I just slowly back up the stairs, he’ll never have to know that I was down here without express permission. Then I can just go sit myself down on that uncomfortable couch in the living room and wait to be told what to do, like a good little lapdog.

But I foolishly let myself indulge in the sight of him for too long. His scent is what does it. Whiskey and chocolate momentarily rob me of the ability to think straight. I can’t stop the errant thought that the sweat dripping down his back probably tastes like burnt sugar.

A thread of unwilling desire stirs in my belly and I feel the first tiny drop of slick arousal run down my inner thigh.

Oh, no.

Nostrils flaring, Ares catches the bag mid-swing and spins around. His eyes are black with fury, body swelling in imminent threat, which makes him look no lessintimidating than a raging bull seeing red. I instinctively hunch away to make myself look smaller.

“Champagne and cherries,” he breathes, his chest rising like a mountain as he deeply inhales. His green eyes glitter with triumph as he surveys my shivering form. “I’d recognize that scent anywhere.”

I back away as he stalks closer, tripping up the stairs until he wraps one dinner-plate sized hand around my ankle, encircling the entire thing and arresting my movement. I end up sprawled on my back a few feet from the bottom, the edge of a wooden step digging into my back and stopping me from cringing away as Ares looms over me.

“Well, well. Look who decided to do a little exploring,” he says, sounding more satisfied than angry. “What should we do with the little Omega who isn’t where she is supposed to be?”

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