Chapter 15 - Delaney

15

Delaney

I want you, Delaney.

He said that, right? I wish I could slip back in time, rewind for a moment, just to make sure. My sneakers are welded to the carpet and Ares flicks his fingers at me, urging me closer.

I step up, shrugging off the strange tug in my belly. My crush on Ares is starting to be a problem. He makes me nervous, makes me feel exposed right down to the bone, and that makes me weak.

“What now?”

Ares squares up, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet. “Pretend I’m coming at you. What do you do?”

I let my fist fly. It’s sloppy, I know that as I start my swing, but I hope I’m quick enough to catch him off-guard. Ares doesn’t even flinch. He slaps my fist aside like it’s nothing.

“Hey! Ouch!”

“I said hit me, not flap your little hand in my face,” he shoots back. I back off, rolling my wrist and checking to make sure nothing’s broken. In truth, the only thing bruised is my ego.

“It’s not my fault you’re built like a fucking tank,” I grumble. Ares folds his arms over his broad chest, muscles bulging in his tight sleeves.

“Delaney, every guy who tries something with you is going to be bigger and stronger than you.”

I glare at him. “I thought you were teaching me how to defend myself, not batter my self-esteem.”

“I am.”

“You just said I’ve got no chance!”

Ares sighs. I’m glad I’m annoying him. It serves him right for slapping me. “Listen, you’ve got a chance,” he says. “You’ve got so many fucking chances. You just have to know what to aim for.”

I take a breath and give in. I raise my clenched fists, holding them in front of me like a boxer. “Show me what to aim for, then.”

Ares steps closer, pausing an arms length away. He reaches out and stops me from stepping back by closing a hand around my wrist.

“Any assailant, no matter the size or strength, has four vulnerable areas,” he says. His fingers glide over my hand, prying open my clenched fist and adjusting my fingers so that the flat of my palm is exposed.

I watch with a pounding heart, my breath tight in my chest, as he gently maneuvers my hand up, touching the heel of my palm to the tip of his nose.

“Nose,” he says.

Then he moves my hand down to his throat and tilts my wrist so that the point of my knuckles rub against his Adam’s apple.

“Throat.”

He takes my other hand and we stand toe-to-toe, my small hands enveloped in his large ones. He sweeps his thumbs along the ridge of my fingers, relaxing them to open, then firms up his grip on my splayed thumbs, so that I understand I need to keep them tense. He guides my hands to his face.

This feels like a bizarre flirtation. Touching me, moving me like some pliable doll. All I know is that I’ll never forget the movements he’s showing me, his confident arrangement feels fire-branded into me with each touch.

Ares’ eyes flutter closed and he presses my thumbs against his eye sockets.

“Eyes.”

He slides my hands to his shoulders, letting them find their natural grip there. He pauses, the air suddenly heavy. Maybe he realizes how close we’re standing. I know I’m aware of it. I’m also very aware of the tension in his muscles, how hard they are under my hands. I’m aware of the quickness in his breath, how his lips part just a little to let his tongue skim along his bottom lip.

With me still touching his shoulders, he settles his hands on my hips. My body tingles, heat building inside my chest and spreading out, out, out until my limbs prickle like kindling on a new fire.

“What, um… What else? You said there were four.”

The corner of his mouth tweaks up. “You’re a smart girl. Figure it out.”

I try to get my brain to work, but all I can think about is how his hands feel on me, how I wouldn’t mind if he pulled me in closer, if he notched his hips against—

“Oh!” I exclaim, then I use my grip on his shoulders as leverage, raise one knee and swing it directly into his crotch.

Ares lets out a soft ‘ Oof! ’ and since I don’t want to actually hurt him, I hold my knee there — pressing in — without the follow-through.

Of course, this just makes the whole situation even worse. My bare knee scrapes the rough denim of his jeans, and as I lower my leg, the angle forces my thigh to brush right along the firm bulge between his legs. Ares shudders. His throat bobs.

“Good girl,” he says, his voice so low and rough it scrapes across my eardrums and sets goosebumps prickling over every inch of me. I hate the words, but the way he says it? Holy fuck, it’s hot.

He searches my face and sees something there that makes him falter. The heat in his eyes dissolves like smoke and he lets me go, taking a long step back and forcing my hands from his shoulders.

Ares turns his back and crosses the room. The gap between us yawns wide, the sudden coldness making my stomach quiver nervously.

I force out a chuckle. “You think I’m ready to hold my own against all the sickos out there?”

Ares thunks his boot-clad foot up on a chair. He slides something from inside his boot and palms it. I’m surprised when he turns back and holds it out to me.

“Here. Just in case.”

The switchblade is long and narrow, the pointy end still sheathed inside. When I don’t move to take it, Ares takes an urgent step closer.

“Delaney. Take it.”

My fingers tremble as I lift it from his palm. It’s lighter than I expected it to be and I heft it a couple of times to get a feel for the weight. I don’t know what to say. There’s a bubble of tightness in my chest that rises into my throat, stopping me from speaking.

Gifts were loaded things in my house after Mama died. Even on birthdays, any present from Dad came with strings; it was an agreement to be good in exchange for something shiny. I think Dad was trying to buy my obedience and my silence. When he realized that didn’t work, that he couldn’t make me put on a glossy smile and pretend like everything was normal, the gifts stopped and the ‘Delaney is a troubled, angry, liar’ narrative started up.

“I just want you to promise me something,” says Ares. I tear my eyes away from the switchblade and try not to look disappointed — the realization that Ares does want something in return is a hard slap of reality to the face.

“Okay,” I say, hearing the numbness in my own voice. “What do you want?”

Ares’ eyes are hard. They bore into me. “Don’t hesitate. If you need to use it, you fucking use it. Got it?”

The hardness in my chest softens. I look back to the blade and wrap my fingers around it. Smooth my thumb along the handle. When I find the release, a firm press of my thumb sends the blade popping out with a sharp snick . I stare at it, trying to imagine what it would feel like to use it against somebody.

“Delaney,” Ares growls impatiently.

“Yes, I promise,” I reply, nodding.

He gives me a stiff nod, then turns away, a hand scrubbing at the back of his neck. “I’m gonna take a shower. Don’t leave the room and—” His eyes flick back, watching warily as I turn the blade over in my hand. “Try not to hurt yourself.”

I grin. “No promises!” I call, as the bathroom door clicks shut.