Page 56 of Major Penalty

I lift my gaze, pulse hammering, and Ares is already watching me.

He knows. He knows exactly what I just thought about, what I just felt. My grip on his hand loosens, and my fingers slide under his palm. He takes his left hand and stops me. His fingers curl around mine, gently taking my hand off his.

“Why are you here, Irene?” he murmurs, his eyes never leaving mine.

“I…I came to thank you. For what you did.” I swallow. “And I came to clean up your wounds.”

Silence, thick and heavy, falls over us when he doesn’t respond. He doesn’t buy a single word of it, either. His head tilts and heat flashing in his gaze. He’s waiting for me to stop lying.

I exhale loudly, my heart hammering in my throat. I hate how well he can see through me.

But I’m starting to see something else, too. I’m starting to see the cracks in his armor. He’s carrying something heavy and painful that no one’s taken the time to heal. Maybe no one even knows it’s there. But I see it in the way he fights, in the way he pushes people away. There’s pain that he hides behind all that strength. I want to see it. I want to know just how deep it goes. I want to help him, to tell him he’ll be okay. Maybe I’m getting ahead of myself. I know it’s not that simple. And yet, I want to be the one who sees him, who helps him find peace with himself. I want to see the ugliest parts of him and show him I’m not afraid of it.

I wet my lips and forced my hand not to shake in his.

“Whatever you think about me, you’re wrong,” I finally say.

He raises a brow, and I press on. “I saw how you didn’t come to me after you walked out of the bathroom with Rowan.” My voice wavers slightly, but I hold his gaze. “You left Livia with me. But you didn’t take your eyes off me. Not once.”

His chest rises and falls, but he still doesn’t say anything.

“You wanted to come to me.” I inhale deeply. I scoot closer, not even realizing I’m doing it. “But you didn’t because you thought I’d be scared of you.”

“Were you?” His voice is calm, but there’s a hint of surprise in it.

“No.” The word comes out without thought, strong and firm. Because deep down, I know it’s the truth. I’m not afraid of him—not in the way he thinks.

I feel his fingers tighten around mine.

“I’m not afraid of you, Ares.” I shake my head. “Not the way you think, at least.” There’s a part of me that’s terrified of what he’s making me feel and another part that’s been craving this closeness and connection. A part that doesn’t want to play it safe. Not this time.

His brow furrows in an unspoken question. “I’m afraid of…” I swallow hard, trying to find the right words. How do I even explain this? How do I explain that the fear I feel isn’t of him but of what he’s awakening inside me?

He doesn’t rush me, doesn’t interrupt. He waits, his presence so intense that it feels like the world is shrinking to just the two of us. He’s waiting for me to be honest, to admit the truth. “I’m afraid of what you’re making me feel. But I’m not afraid of you.”

Ares inhales, his eyes darkening. Searching my face as if he’s trying to figure out if this is all some game. But I can see it in his eyes now—the hunger, the vulnerability he’s trying to bury. It’s all there. And then, without a word, he lifts his injured hand and wraps it around my throat.

The action is slow, giving me time to pull back if I want to. But I don’t. I don’t want to move, not when his palm is so warm against my skin. His fingers press just enough to make my breath catch in my throat. I can feel my pulse beating under his hand, fast and erratic like it’s trying to escape my body. But I’m not scared. Instead, I feel something else building inside me.

His eyes burn into mine, questioning. “What about now?” My heart slams. A slow, agonizing, pulsing warmth that seeps into my veins and into my core. I don’t look away or pull back. I can feel his thumb press lightly into my pulse. Then I shake my head.

“No.” My voice is almost above a whisper. “There’s nothing you can do to scare me away,” Because underneath all that intensity, beneath the silence and sharp edges—he's all heart. And I see it.

His fingers flex against my throat, testing, feeling, committing this moment to memory. Then his fingers tighten a little more, and I know he’s waiting for me to take it back, to flinch. To prove him right.

But I don’t. I won’t.

Instead, I lift my hand and place it over his. My fingers graze his split knuckles as I flatten my palm against the back of his large hand. And I push. I press against his hand, forcing his fingers to tighten around my throat.

Ares’ lips part. Blistering heat flashes in his eyes, and it burns me alive. He takes in a heavy breath, making his chest rise and fall.

Then—suddenly—his free hand swipes the first aid kit off the bed. Gauze, wipes, antiseptic—all of it scatters. Before I can process it, his grip tightens enough to make me dizzy as he pushes me down onto the bed.

My back hits the soft mattress, and my breath leaves me in a rush. My heart skips a beat as Ares leans in so close his lips brush past my ear.

“Brave little thing.” His voice is sin itself.

A shudder rips through me, and my fingers tighten around his wrist. He tilts his head, his nose skimming my jaw, his breath hot against my flushed cheek. His grip stays firm, not choking, just holding, claiming, marking. But it’s more than that. His touch isn’t just physical, it’s possessive. It makes me want to give him more, to let him take whatever he wants.

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