Page 25 of Shadowed Bond

His mouth almost twitches. “You can try.”

I step past him into the room, refusing to let him see that his near-smile is more distracting than it has any right to be.

The warmth hits properly once the door shuts behind us. I want out of these clothes immediately. I want hot water, soap, and at least ten minutes where nothing smells like old blood, tunnel rot or Ares Westwood standing too close.

“I’m showering first,” I say.

“Fine.”

“What? Really? You’re not going to fight me on it?”

“Get in there before I change my mind,” he growls.

I reach for my bag, but Ares is already lifting it from where he dropped it by the door. He hands it to me without comment, taking me by surprise. I hesitate for a moment before taking it; our fingers brush, and I notice it despite it being so fleeting.

His eyes flick to our hands, then to my face. Neither of us moves for half a second.

Then I take the bag properly and step back.

“Thank you,” I say.

His jaw tightens, as if the words have somehow inconvenienced him. “Don’t start being polite now. It’s weird.”

“You are impossible,” I reply, shaking my head before I enter the bathroom, not waiting for a reply.

The shower feels incredible. Hot water runs over my skin, washing away the dirt. I scrub harder than necessary, as if I can remove the sight of those scratched walls, the old bloodstains, the rot, the mud – all of it.

The memories linger, but I feel better.

By the time I step out, the mirror is steamed up. I dry quickly and pull on the only clean clothes I packed for sleeping. Thin white trousers, soft and clinging slightly from the steam, and a fitted white top with long sleeves. Clean, simple fabric that feels like heaven after the drain water and cold.

I towel my hair as I open the bathroom door and see Ares re-enter. He must have left while I was showering. He puts down the paper bags he’s carrying onto the desk and places two takeaway cups beside them. The room fills with the smell of chips, grilled meat and coffee.

He turns when I come out, then stops. For one brief moment, Ares Westwood seems to have forgotten his usual attitude. His gaze drops before he can stop it.

Not like the man at the service station. It is quicker than that, sharper, almost unwilling. His eyes move from my damp hair to my face, then down over the white top and the soft trousers clinging lightly to my legs before snapping back up to my face.

His jaw clenches, and the room suddenly feels smaller.

I am fully dressed. Decently dressed. There is nothing remotely scandalous about what I am wearing.

That only makes his reaction more dangerous.

“What?” I ask.

“Nothing.” He looks away first, turning back to the desk with unnecessary force as he starts pulling food from the bags. “I got dinner,” he mutters.

“I can see that. You found a place open at this hour?”

“It’s food; I’d find it at any time of the day or night. Besides, you didn’t eat enough earlier.”

“Sounds almost like you care, Westwood,” I remark with a taunting smirk.

Ares notices and glares at me. “I don’t. Eat. Don’t eat. I don’t care.”

I walk closer, still towel-drying my hair. His shoulders tense as I pass him, and I notice the way his eyes fix very deliberately on the food instead of me.

“You bought too much again,” I say dryly, although right now I am starved.