Page 34 of Aries

“The credits spend the same,” I respond evenly, lifting my chin despite the fear crawling up my spine. “And these beans are required for our assignment.”

“Required?” His face twists with disgust. “Like that dance show you put on? Making a mockery of justice with your little love story?”

Other shoppers stop to watch the confrontation unfold. I sense Aries coiling beside me, ready to defend, but I force myself to remain steady.

“Sir,” I say, keeping my voice firm but polite, “we’re not here to debate justice. Just to buy beans. Will you sell them or should we try another stall?”

My calm seems to inflame him further. “You think you can redeem a murderer with pretty words and fancy moves?”

Before I can respond, someone shoves me hard from behind. The force sends me stumbling directly toward a merchant’s stall that is lined with sharp metal farm tools.

Without thinking, Aries lunges forward, his powerful arms wrapping around my waist and spinning me away from the deadly display. We collide with a nearby fabric stall in a tangle of limbs and silk.

For a heartbeat that feels like an eternity, we’re pressed together completely—my soft curves molded against his hard chest, my face buried in the hollow of his throat where I can taste his skin with each gasping breath. His hands spanmy ribcage, thumbs accidentally brushing the underside of my breasts as he steadies me. The heat of his palms burns through my thin tunic.

I can feel every ridge of muscle beneath his shirt, the thundering of his heart against my cheek, the way his breathing has gone ragged.

His scent—clean sweat and his own personal smell—fills my lungs and makes me dizzy with want. One of his hands has tangled in my hair, the other is now splayed possessively across my lower back, fingers dangerously close to the curve of my ass.

“Are you hurt?” His voice is a rough whisper against my ear, sending shivers cascading through my body. I feel the vibration of his words through his chest, intimate as a caress.

“No,” I breathe, but make no move to separate. My hands are fisted in his tunic, and I can feel him trembling. Or maybe that’s me. The prohibited contact feels like drowning in fire, every nerve ending alive with sensation.

His thumb traces my cheekbone with devastating gentleness, checking for injury, and I have to bite back a moan. This is what I’ve been craving, what weeks of careful distance have denied us both—the simple, profound intimacy of touch.

Then reality crashes back. The Committee’s observer appears instantly, their crystalline form catching the afternoon light.

“Physical contact has occurred,” they intone. “Though protective in nature, a mark must be registered against your progress.”

We separate like we’ve been burned, both breathing hard. The loss of contact feels like a physical ache.

“This is your first mark,” the Committee member continues. “Two more mean failure.”

The crowd has grown larger, some looking satisfied that we’ve been penalized, others appearing uncomfortable with the hostility they’ve witnessed. Three large males circle us with predatory intent.

“Perhaps you should shop elsewhere,” one suggests, hand resting meaningfully on his weapon. “Some places are for respectable citizens only.”

Part of me wants to see Aries unleash his gladiator skills on these bullies, but the stakes are too high now. Two more marks mean death.

“We’re just here to shop,” I say, my voice surprisingly strong.

The largest enforcer steps closer. “Pretty little thing to be defending a killer. Maybe you need someone to show you better options.”

A growl builds in Aries’ chest, his protective instincts clearly warring with the knowledge that any aggressive action could doom us both. Despite the dangerous circumstances, my mind is still focused on the phantom touch of his hands on my skin.

“I have all the options I need,” I tell the bully, surprised by how steady my voice sounds despite the chaos of emotions swirling through me. “And you’re blocking paying customers from this gentleman’s stall.”

The merchant shifts uncomfortably as other shoppers mutter. None intervene, but the crowd’s mood feels uncertain now.

“You heard the lady,” Aries says quietly, his voice carrying that dangerous edge I recognize from his fighting days. “We’re just here to shop.”

The bully’s hand tightens on his weapon. For a moment, violence feels inevitable. Then the Committee member emerges between us and our foes, their crystalline form impossible to ignore.

“Is there a problem?” Their layered voice carries a subtle threat.

Our tormentors step back, recognizing a higher authority. “No problem. Just keeping the peace.”

“Indeed.” The Committee member’s faceted eyes miss nothing. “Then you won’t mind if these two complete their shopping?”

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