Ares

by Heaton, Felicity

  “You want a shower? The hot water might fix it. Worked wonders for my aching muscles.”

  Megan’s eyes widened, darted to the chiselled expanse of his bare torso and the muscles in question, and then back to his eyes. She wouldn’t be able to shower without imagining him in there with her and that was a recipe for disaster.

  “No, it’s fine.”

  He didn’t look convinced. He dropped his smaller towel on the back of the couch, grabbed her shoulders and firmly turned her towards the blank television.

  His hands were hot against her bare shoulders, teasing her senses. She stared at the television screen and it blurred, all of her focus switching to the points where he was touching her despite her best efforts to remain aware of everything and not lose herself in him.

  “I’ll fix it then,” he said, voice deeper and huskier than before. “You fixed me after all.”

  She didn’t have a chance to refuse.

  His hands settled against her neck and she struggled to keep her eyes open as he began to massage the tension away. There was strength in his large hands but he was gentle with her, never applying too much pressure, his movements slow and almost sensual. He carefully slid his fingers along the line of her jaw, sending a wave of tingles down her throat to her breasts, and eased her head around, cracking her neck. She lost her battle against her eyes. They fell shut as she savoured the feel of his hands on her, strong and commanding, and a little hot against her skin, and she melted into the couch.

  “You’re good at this,” she murmured, breathless and unable to get her voice above a whisper. “Most people don’t know what they’re doing.”

  “I used to give my little sister massages whenever she hurt herself... which was often.” The warmth in his tone said he adored his sister and that her exploits had always amused him.

  His fingers caressed her jaw, sending another cascade of tingles down to her breasts, causing her nipples to tighten and ache, and then his hands settled on her shoulders. His thumbs brushed the nape of her neck, tickling her and making her shiver, stirring that wicked heat in her veins again until it licked at her resolve, beginning to burn it to ashes.

  He whispered something she didn’t quite catch, something about touching. Her breathing hitched when he leaned over her, nudging her head forwards so her shoulder-length hair fell away from her nape. His breath teased the fine hairs on her neck, making them stand on end, and her stomach tightened with anticipation, with the ridiculous thought that he might kiss her for some reason.

  She wanted to feel his mouth on her skin.

  “Isn’t that a sight for a Hallmark card?”

  Megan tensed at the unfamiliar bass voice.

  Her eyes snapped open.

  In front of her stood another tall, well-built man, this one as broad as the man at her back but his skin a darker shade of bronze. Black ribbons of smoke swirled around his limbs, flowing over the sleeves of his charcoal linen shirt and his trousers, and slowly dissipating. Rich brown eyes flecked with green and gold held hers, demanding her attention, holding her so fiercely she didn’t even notice that her protector’s hands left her shoulders.

  A gasp escaped her when another man appeared quickly followed by another, each of them trailing black ribbons in their wake and each looking more dangerous than the last. Two, three, four, five of them.

  With a noise like the crack of thunder, a final man appeared. This one made her blood pound and mind scream for her to run, but the scar over the left side of his jaw and down his neck had her frozen to the couch and staring. She felt his eyes on her, burning with intensity. A slight, forced shift and hers met them. Golden pools of danger watched her like a hawk studying potential prey. His already narrowed eyes closed further and he ran them over her, carefully and slowly, as though committing every inch of her to memory.

  Or searching for a weakness.

  “Who’s the pretty thing, Ares? A new play toy?” he growled and his gaze switched to the man behind her.

  Megan swallowed her heart and looked over the back of the couch at him. He stood with his thick arms folded across his defined bare chest, facing the six men in front of her. His muscles tensed and bulged, biceps as big as footballs.

  She felt tiny.

  She looked at the other men and that feeling didn’t go away. They were all tall and all of them looked as much a warrior as her protector was, even though their physiques ranged from slim to broad. The two from last night were amongst the group, situated near the back, close to the small open room with the motorcycle.

  Daimon’s pale blue eyes shifted from Esher to her and she dropped her gaze to his dark jumper that reached to his jaw. He always covered so much skin. He had frozen the gun last night and had come close to freezing her hand too. Did that power have something to do with why he kept himself covered and wore black leather gloves?

  Esher seemed more relaxed this evening, his deep blue gaze fixed over her head on his brother. There was relief in his eyes, warmth that she had never expected to see or believed him capable of feeling. It almost made her jealous that she had never had a sibling to care about her welfare or love her as much as he clearly loved his brother.

  He didn’t scare her as much today and she took advantage of him being occupied and ran a glance over him. He had swapped his blue-grey shirt and black t-shirt for a casual button down black shirt tonight, wearing it with the tails hanging over his dark blue jeans, and a light blue scarf wrapped loosely around his neck. His black hair had been tied in a top-knot at the back of his head, revealing the closely shorn sides of his head and long sideburns that reached the lobes of his ears.

  Both Daimon and Esher were wearing their long black cotton coats again, and she noticed that Esher’s had a sapphire blue lining that matched his eyes. A few of the other men wore a similar garment over their dark clothing.

  Her gaze shifted to the next man, driven by curiosity. They were all staring at her, so she figured she would stare back at them. It was only fair.

  His long black coat had a stormy silver lining, a contrast to his pale blue eyes and blond ponytail. He looked much younger than the others, on the late twenties side of the scale, and far lighter too. There was a twinkle in his eyes as he looked at her and a touch of mischief in the slight tilt of his lips, as though he was thinking of something amusing and was weighing up whether to say it or not, and what the reaction would be.

  He stood next to the one who had declared she was Ares’s new plaything. They shared traits like height and their athletic slim build, the colour of their hair and their choice of black military-style clothing, all combat trousers, boots and t-shirts so tight she could count the muscles on their torsos.

  The other man looked a few years older than the one with the ponytail though and infinitely more dangerous. He wore his blond hair cut jaggedly around the sides, as if he had hacked at it with a blade, and with the longer lengths on top swept down over one side of his face.

  The right side.

  She had the impression that the decision to leave the scars on the left side of his face and neck on display had been a conscious one.

  The younger blond seemed quiet and serene compared with the darkness and violence that haunted the other one’s expression.

  Megan frowned. If all of these men were brothers by blood, not circumstance, then their mother had been busy. There had to be only two or three years between each man. She couldn’t imagine what trouble they had caused as youths or how hard it had been to raise seven sons. Their mother probably deserved a medal. Or several.

  The first man to appear moved to sit in the red armchair to her left, his brown eyes on her protector now. He ran strong fingers through the unruly waves of his rich chocolate hair, leaned into the back of the armchair and crossed his legs at the knee. He was the only one of the six not wearing what she had decided was a standard issue coat for these men. His choice of a charcoal linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up his thick forearms, and black linen trousers, left her fee
ling he had come from somewhere hot.

  It certainly wasn’t the right clothing for New York in late winter.

  The final man stepped forward, coming to stand in front of her. Megan shifted her gaze and looked up the height of him. He was at least an inch taller than her protector and incredibly elegant as he moved with fluid grace. His long black coat hugged his slim figure and he wore a pristine black dress shirt tucked into his pressed black trousers, coupled with polished leather shoes.

  The other men all looked at him. Was he their leader?

  He appeared older than all of them, possibly pushing forty and at least three years older than her protector, and he was too handsome. He had the sort of face that could sell whatever someone had the brains to stick it on. Movies, magazines, cereal, books, or porn. Anything. He could sell it to the masses.

  Jet black hair tufted at the back of his head but was longer on top and softly spiked, like Daimon’s but a contrast in colour. Neatly trimmed sideburns reached down to his high cheekbones and ended in a diagonal, with a thin line of hairs that curved beneath his cheeks to accent them, so sharp against his pale flawless skin. The tips of his ears were slightly pointed and vivid green eyes the colour of emeralds sat embraced by thick black lashes.

  Her eyes went round. There was a small black heart on his cheekbone beneath his left eye. Not quite the sort of tattoo she would have figured such a handsome man would have.

  His bright green eyes held hers, not with intensity or any sort of demand. They were cold and assessing, and the longer she looked into them, the less her head throbbed and the less aware she became of her surroundings. It felt as though he was reading her mind through her eyes, holding her immobile and under his spell.

  God only knew, he probably was.

  He ran a hand around the cropped back of his head and looked at the man behind her.

  Megan sagged into the couch, releasing the breath she had unconsciously held. Her gaze remained on the man. There was something unearthly about him, and proud too. An arrogance that he wore as though he was a king and every person in this world was his subject.

  Beneath him.

  He turned and looked over his shoulder, towards Daimon where he hung at the back of the group with Esher.

  “She is not Hellspawn.” The proud one turned back to the one behind her and then lowered his gaze to hers.

  She stared up at him, feeling lost again, entranced by his beauty. He could be a model, or maybe a stripper with those dusky bowed lips. Women would pay thousands to kiss them.

  “Get out of her head,” the man behind her growled and something flickered across the face of the proud one, a darkness akin to anger but far stronger, and then it lifted.

  His hold over her dissipated as quickly as the shadows that had crossed his face and she blinked as her protector’s words registered. He had really been in her head?

  “Is it true?” he said to her protector.

  Heavy hands claimed her shoulders again.

  A collective gasp broke the tense silence.

  The only one who didn’t move forwards to crowd her was Esher. He remained at the back of the room, his stormy blue eyes locked on her, darkness swirling in their depths again. She had liked him more when he had looked compassionate. Now he was challenging the scarred blond in the race to who scared her the most. The scarred blond reeked of violence, his appearance throwing it in her face, a blatant warning that he was dangerous. Esher’s was a darker sort of danger, a quiet type that lurked beneath a perfectly calm surface, a silent killer camouflaged and waiting to strike.

  Megan looked up at the six men towering over her. Her pulse raced again, slipping the tethers of her control, and her hands trembled. Her head was still killing her, she didn’t have a clue what was going on, and she sure as hell wasn’t going to sit here and let them make her feel small and weak.

  She jolted to her feet, wanting to be more level with them, and stood her ground even though they all still dwarfed her. Not one of them was below six foot. She fisted her hands at her sides. They casually stepped back as one to give her more room but all of their faces said that she hadn’t scared them with her sudden movement.

  “Look... I don’t know what freaky stuff you guys are into but it’s not my scene. I did what you asked.” She looked pointedly at Daimon where he stood between the tawny built one and the dark proud one. “I want to go home now.”

  They all stared at her as though she had suddenly sprouted extra limbs rather than merely asked to go home.

  “Now!”

  None of them moved. All of their eyes narrowed on her, including Esher’s.

  Shouting had probably been a bad idea.

  She folded her arms across her chest and then quickly unfolded them when she remembered she had taken her jumper off last night and realised she had just squashed her breasts together in her dark pink camisole. There was no need to encourage them.

  “You can’t keep me here,” she snapped, glaring at each of them in turn.

  They all exchanged glances and then stared at her again. Did they want her to give them a reason?

  Megan said the first thing that came to her. “My boyfriend will be looking for me.”

  The man behind her growled, the sound feral and fierce, like an animal. A shiver bolted down her spine. The scarred blond one came forwards until personal space became an issue and her trembling exploded into shaking. Her heart skipped beats and her palms sweated. He leaned in and breathed deeply, and smirked.

  “You smell like desire but you haven’t had a boyfriend in a long time... if at all.”

  Megan’s cheeks blazed. Super smell wasn’t a power she had even considered but she couldn’t deny he had it, and he had hit close to the truth. Her gaze zipped to the oak floor.

  “Back off, Valen.” Her protector’s deep voice curled around her and she blinked as she realised he had moved around the couch and now stood between her and the men. He stretched his left arm out in front of her, forcing the others to back away and keep their distance.

  Megan’s eyes roamed up his sensual bare back to his profile. He was protecting her again. The man named Valen glared at him.

  “Do as he says.” The proud one this time and the edge to his voice said that it was a command. The group moved back and she felt she could breathe again. He was definitely their leader. He looked down at her. “Megan, is it?”

  She nodded.

  “I am told you have a power. Daimon believed you were Hellspawn, but that does not appear to be the case.”

  He had said that word twice now. Hellspawn.

  “Is that like a daemon?” she said and their eyes narrowed on her again.

  “No, it is different to a daemon... and I do not think the picture you have in your head is correct for either species. They are not monsters, Megan. They look like you or I, only they are nothing like us.”

  Oh. That explained nothing.

  She looked at her protector and he turned his head and glanced down at her over his shoulder, his dark eyes meeting hers and sending a shiver down her spine. “The man last night was a daemon?”

  He nodded. “A daemon is a dark soul who dwells in this world. They are sometimes born of the souls of corrupted dead and sometimes born to daemon parents.”

  “I’m not a daemon.” It wasn’t a question because she didn’t want him to answer that she was.

  She made it a statement.

  Her parents hadn’t been like her, she was sure of it, and she wasn’t a corrupted soul, whatever that was, and she certainly wasn’t dead.

  He nodded and relief beat through her.

  “I’m one of these Hellspawn thingies?”

  “No,” the proud one said and she met his gaze again, looking over the top of her protector’s arm. “We need to establish what you are. What is your power?”

  “I can heal.” It was the first time she had ever told anyone that and it felt strangely good to say it out loud, and the fact that no one laughed or told her she was bein
g stupid made it feel even better.

  He reached into his trouser pocket, withdrew a short folding knife and opened it.

  Was he going to hurt her?

  She shrank back, moving closer to her protector. His eyes were on his brother and he mimicked her move, closing the distance between them until he was almost in front of her, his immense body shielding hers. His handsome features set in a dark scowl.

  The proud one ran the blade across the left side of his own throat and blood instantly broke the line of the wound, much to the horror of his kin, who all rushed forwards, one of them barking orders to the others.

  Orders she didn’t hear as her heart pounded in her ears and her stomach turned, gaze drawn to the sickening sight of crimson flowing down his neck in a thick stream, stark against his pale skin.

  He raised his fist and everyone halted, the air in the room growing tense, and she felt their gazes land on her, the weight of their expectation pressing down on her shoulders.

  “Prove it,” he said and she stared at the dark trail of blood.

  It reached his collar and soaked into his black shirt. Her heart accelerated and stomach did a backflip, disbelief stealing her ability to think or move.

  He had cut his own damned throat.

  His hand shot towards her and seized her arm, and he dragged her against him, yanking her past her protector’s arm. He growled at his brother. The proud one stared him down, his green eyes ice cold.

  Megan looked at her protector and caught the darkness in his gaze, the barely restrained anger that caused the flecks of red and gold in his irises to brighten. His gaze shifted to her and she swallowed, and nodded, wanting him to see that she was fine with this and what his brother was demanding. She couldn’t stand by and let this man bleed out, not when she had the power to heal him, and perhaps she could get all of them off her back at the same time by showing them that she wasn’t a threat.

  She raised a shaky hand to the proud one’s bleeding throat. If the wound was hurting him, it didn’t show. His emerald gaze remained impassive, no trace of pain in it even though he was rapidly losing blood. She held her right hand over the wound and focused. She was weak still, only realised it now that she needed her power again. Normally a good sleep replenished her strength but it hadn’t this time.