Page 6 of Aries

The words stick in my throat. Because the truth is, I don’t want to die. Not anymore. Not since finding a place among this makeshift family of former slaves and gladiators. Not since watching Callie build a life for herself despite everything that happened in that cell. Not since I’ve dreamed of her at night while avoiding her during the day—forannums.

“Time’s up.” The guard’s voice startles us both.

“The attorney needs an answer soon,” Callie says quickly. “We’ve asked him to draw up the forms. Just… think about it? Please?”

I watch her walk away, Petra’s arm around her shoulders. The cell feels colder somehow, emptier. My reflection stares back from the barrier’s surface—a blurry killer who ran from justice, a slave who fought for freedom, a coward who pushed away the one person who might have understood.

The worst part is, she’s right. I don’t want to die. But the thought of spending three months trying to convince everyone—including ourselves—that there could be something real between us…

The memory of that cell rises unbidden. The way she looked at me before I made my choice. The trust I betrayed, thinking I was protecting her. The walls I built that somehow became a prison for us both.

Three months to either fix what I broke or lose everything.

Maybe that’s exactly what I deserve.

Chapter Five

Callie

The ceremonial robe refuses to cooperate. It’s intricate, clearly requiring two people to fasten it. Frustration builds as another attempt to secure the back panel fails.

“Here, let me…” Aries’ voice comes from behind, closer than he’s been in years. His hands hover near the fabric, not quite touching. “If you’ll permit me?”

My throat tightens. “Yes. Thank you.” My voice is so stiff, an observer might think I wasn’t a willing participant.

The brush of his fingers against the thick brocade sends a shiver through me. The fabric rustles as he works, each careful movement deliberate, like he’s defusing an explosive rather than helping with clothing. The sweet-spicy scent of him—so familiar from that long-ago cell—makes my head spin as intimate pictures flash unbidden in my mind.

“These ceremonial garments are rather complex,” he murmurs, breaking the heavy silence. His voice sounds rough, although he’s forcing casualness.

Each brush of his fingers against the fabric sends electricity racing across my skin.

“The Redemption Committee representative said the complexity is intentional. Something about the couple having to work together from the very beginning.”

A soft exhale that might be a laugh. “They’re not subtle with their symbolism, are they?”

“About as subtle as being told we have to dress each other for our own wedding.” The word ‘wedding’ hangs in the air between us, making everything feel suddenly, painfully real.

His hands pause at my shoulder. “Callie, are you absolutely certain—”

“Don’t.” As I turn to face him, the gold brocade robe swishes around my ankles. “We’ve been through this. The forms are signed. The Committee is waiting. This is happening.”

His amber eyes search mine, something raw and vulnerable flickering in their depths. The ceremonial robe he wears—all severe lines and metallic threading—makes him look like some ancient warrior-prince. The ram’s horns curling beside his face complete the fantastical effect.

A minute slips by as memories of my older sister’s wedding pull me back in time. Barely thirteen then, I watched her in awe — a radiant bride in her twenties. My mind had spun grand visions of my own wedding day, a white dress flowing as I walked down the aisle toward a handsome man who gazed at me the way Travis looked at Megan.

Shaking the thought away, I refuse to dwell on how far this sham of a ceremony is from those childhood dreams. Being abducted into space, living like a pirate, and reciting vows in another language to a horned male from another planet never factored into those fantasies. At least one thing remains the same — there’s no denying he’s handsome.

“Your turn,” I say, gesturing to the unfastened panels at his shoulders. “Unless you’d prefer to walk down the aisle with your robe falling off.”

A muscle ticks in his jaw, but he turns, presenting his back. The powerful muscles there bunch under bronze skin as I work with the fastenings. Five years of carefully maintained distance dissolve with each necessary touch.

“The Committee explained the hand-feeding ritual?” he asks, his voice carefully neutral.

“Yes.” My fingers fumble with a particularly stubborn clasp. “We take turns feeding each other ceremonial foods while maintaining eye contact. Supposed to represent trust and nurturing or something equally on-the-nose…” And totally impossible.

“And you’re comfortable with this choice? This level of… intimacy?”

His word choice makes me pause. “Are you?”

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