9

Talia

A loud knock on the door woke me up.

“It's time.” My father's voice announced from the other side.

Time for what? My body felt stiff from lying on the couch. Rubbing the sleepiness from my eyes, I adjusted upright wondering when I'd drifted off into sleep. I'd been too afraid to close my eyes, or even share the bed with Ares, and I'd taken one of the knives he dropped on the table, just in case. Glancing around, I noticed Ares wasn't in the room but I could hear the sound of running water from the adjoining bathroom.

He didn't touch me. He could have. This marriage had given him the right, and no one would have cared whether I wanted it or not. Yet, he hadn’t. The realization made my heart warm and… hopeful.

The bathroom door slid open, and he stepped out with only a towel wrapped around his waist. Water trailed down his chest, and my eyes followed the movement before I could catch myself.

When I finally looked up at his face, it was blank. “Good morning.” I whispered, feeling a blush creep up my cheeks.

He didn't respond. Instead, he turned away, moving to where his clothes were laid out, giving me just enough privacy to ogle his perfect body.

I did not have any real experience with men but I'd seen bare chests enough times—naked men even—to know that none came close to Ares. From the way he'd felt against me the night before, I was painfully aware that he was… well-endowed in that regard. His back flexed as he pulled on his shirt before reaching for his weapons.

His knife was still in my possession. I expected him to ask for it back, but he didn't. When he finally turned, he held up the writing pad.

‘They need proof.’

Shit! I'd forgotten about the bloodied sheets that would be presented to the men of our families. They were downstairs, waiting for it but there was nothing. No evidence of what was supposed to have happened between us. How could we possibly provide blood when we hadn't…

He looked at me like the answer was obvious.

“You want me to cut myself?” The question tasted bitter on my tongue.

A small smile graced his lips, and I knew I didn't have much of a choice. If I refused, an unsullied sheet would mean I wasn't pure, which had far greater consequences.

I moved to the bed and took out the knife, “where?”

He pointed at his own inner thighs, a flash of challenge flickering in his pupils.

My fingers trembled around the hilt, dread pooling in my stomach. “So… here,” I said, gesturing to my own body now. I wasn't going to let him watch me cower. Counting backward from ten, I pressed the knife against my skin, drawing one precise slash across it. Blood welled instantly, trailing down my leg and dripping onto the white sheets. We both watched as it soaked into the fabric, staining it irrevocably.

“Is that enough?” My voice shook from the pain despite my attempt to keep it firm.

Ares disappeared into the bathroom, returning moments later with a damp towel. I expected him to hand it to me; instead, he knelt beside me, meticulously wiping the blood away until it was just an angry red vertical line.

The cloth brushed dangerously close to the apex of my thigh, the sting from my cut long forgotten, replaced by warmth pooling low in my belly. I clenched my thighs but it only made the sensation worse.

There was no way he didn't notice.

His fingers inched higher, the pressure of his touch changing into something teasing. My lips parted on a quiet gasp before I could stop it, and the knife slipped from my grip.

I'd touched myself countless times, thinking of the stranger from that night—a secret I would take to my grave. Nothing, not a single fantasy, could have prepared me for the way Ares’ touch actually felt, how it consumed me entirely, how it made every nerve in my body scream for more.

‘You should be ashamed of yourself.’ My mind berated. He was forbidden. My sister's husband even though I was standing in her place… yet every ounce of sense had left me, leaving confusion in its wake.

“Ares…” I whispered, shame and want tangled together as my hips rocked into his hand. I wanted more. I wanted to feel his fingers in me.

Then suddenly he stopped. The absence of his touch was brutal. A broken whimper escaped from my mouth and my eyes flew up to his face in confusion. Ares rose slowly, his composure snapping back into place as though he hadn’t just undone me with the barest brush of his fingers.

And I realised he was trying to prove a point. He wanted to show me how quickly my resolve crumbled… how little it took for him to reduce me to want, and how easily he could take it away.