Page 10 of Blood Descendants
“What’s yours?” Ares asks as they file inside.
All I have to do is point and direct. The three guys grab box after box, hauling them to the elevator and down to the truck parked below. And Ares doesn’t just stand there. He loads up the heaviest of the boxes, hauling them out.
It’s all done in less than half an hour. Two years of my life here, packed up and removed in less time than it takes me to run one load of laundry.
“Any last burning goodbyes you’re wanting to offer?” Ares asks as the movers head out with the last of the bags.
“Nope,” I answer honestly. Dannika can go rot in her room forever. Kylie hasn’t been home all day, but there’s no love lost between her and me either. “Let’s get out of here.”
I don’t know who the show is for when Ares takes my hand in his and leads me out of the apartment. He doesn’t bother to shut the door behind him as he exits.
I may be going into shock. I don’t know what to say as he takes us to the elevator. He doesn’t say a word as we ride the elevator to the ground floor. But he doesn’t let my hand go even when we’re alone. He only tightens his hold when the doors open, and we walk out the front doors.
His grip is firm. Yet, somehow, it doesn’t feel threatening.
It feels… Fuck. What is that? Protective?
But my line of thought is immediately disrupted when he crosses the sidewalk and goes straight to a matte black motorcycle parked at the curb. He grabs a helmet and extends it toward me. “Let’s go home, Vengeance.”
“That’s yours?” I ask, my voice shaking just slightly.
“The third greatest love of my life,” he says as a rouge smile crooks the corner of his mouth.
I take a deep breath and accept the helmet. I pull it down over my head. He steps forward, taking care as he latches the buckle and adjusts it for me.
He offers this wry, coy smile that makes all of my insides liquify.
“Hold on,” he says as he turns and straddles the bike. He sifts in the seat, clearly making room for me.
The organ in my chest is trying to find a quick exit. But I clench and unclench my fists just once before I climb onto the back of the bike.
Hesitantly, I put my hands on Ares’ hips. He’s not a man you just touch casually. The man is named after the freaking god of war, and he looks it.
But as he fires up the bike, the engine snarling to life, he hits the gas just slightly. My arms wrap around him in a death grip, my face buried into his back.
I swear his chest rumbles just slightly with a chuckle. But he throttles the gas, and we take off down the street.
There’s insane traffic, but you wouldn’t know it existed as Ares weaves his way through the lanes. I finally dare open my eyes, watching as thousands of people fall behind us, as familiar landmarks come and go.
And I realize I’m going from the worst apartment in Sutton Place to the Upper West Side.
And not just the Upper West Side.
Ares slows, and I find a moving truck parked in front of one of the oldest and most historic buildings in New York City. Without hesitating, he guides the bike down into the underground parking at the back of the building.
“So, you obviously didn’t go destitute when you cut ties with your father,” I say after I’ve climbed off the bike and pulled the helmet off. I hand it back to Ares, who secures it on the bike.
I realize then that he never wore his own helmet. But maybe vampires are wreck-proof.
“Not exactly,” he says vaguely. But he doesn’t elaborate as he heads straight for a door. I follow after him, memorizing my surroundings as I go.
We walk into a long hallway. The floors are covered with elaborate tile. The walls are crisp, fresh white. There are a few doors that branch off here and there, utility closets and maintenance access.
But finally, we break into a gorgeous lobby.
A chandelier hangs overhead, and instead of crystals, it looks as if it’s crusted with diamonds. The ceiling is a beautiful dome with elaborate detail carved into the moldings. Two large, arched windows give us a view of Central Park. A set of gleaming elevator doors sits positioned across from the desk where an older man stands and crosses to us.
“You the ones moving into 8A?” he asks as he slides his hands into his pockets. He has to be well over sixty years old. His fully gray hair matches his fully gray mustache. But there’s a confidence in his step that makes me think in his younger years, he was more than capable of handling himself.
