Just a few minutes later, the car stops at the curb. Billings climbs out and comes around to open Ares’ door. I climb out after him, taking his offered hand for help. I smooth my hand over my dress when I get out at the sidewalk, and Ares slides an arm around my waist.
Shit. I’m starting to like the feel of it way too much. It’s size. It’s heat. It’s intimacy.
A girl could get used to the touch of her fake fiancé.
While the Hunt House was borderline magical,Ares’ father’s house is exactly fitting of the image I have in mind for the man. It’s a brick building with black details. And it is covered in detail. From the stone lions to the moldings. The shutters, the arches. The balconies. The building stretches five stories high. And while it is attached to other buildings, it isn’t obvious. And this location? I can’t even imagine how one individual could ever, ever afford it.
Apparently, it fits within the budget of an immortal borderline mafiaesque vampire.
We set toward the massive black doors, but before we even reach them, a man steps out wearing a black suit and an obvious earpiece.
“Welcome back, Ares,” he says in a deep, rumbling voice. “Augustus is anxious to see you.”
Ares ignores the man’s words completely and walks in the doors, pulling me along at his side.
Just a few weeks ago, I couldn’t imagine setting foot in a building like this. Now, I live in one that is nearly as impressive. And my fake future sister-in-law lives in one as well and says I’m welcome over any time.
The walls are painted a deep blue that compliments the wood details that run underfoot and climb the walls. A modern chandelier overhead casts us in a dim glow. And straight ahead are floor-to-ceiling windows granting us the most beautiful view of the East River.
Another guard is waiting for us just inside. “Arms up,” he simply says, looking at me with heavy, dead eyes.
“Excuse me?” I ask doubtfully, arching an eyebrow at him.
“Weapons check,” he says simply.
“Watch your hands, or I’ll relieve you of them,” Ares snarls as he puts his arms up, and the man quickly pats him down.
I fix the guard with a look of pure hatred, and raise my arms.
He sweeps his hands down my back, over my hips. He sweeps one hand between my breasts in a cutting motion, and Ares growls in warning.
“Clear,” the guard says, unphased. He steps back, taking up his position by the front door with his hands clasped at his waist.
“Mr. Lonan is waiting for you upstairs,” the first guard says.
I take a moment to look around. And it feels like such a waste. Space comes at such a premium in this city. But as I look to the left and to the right, I find nearly identical wide hallways, each with a couch in it and a large variety of artwork on the walls. Nothing else. Nothing functional. This space is for receiving. For show. And nothing more.
The first guard walks up the stairs, and Ares and I follow after him. I realize as Ares takes the space in, observing every detail, that he’s never been here before. And then I remember Ares telling me that Augustus moves every few years, always claiming his latest real estate conquest.
What would it be like? To have more money than some small countries?
With my hand gripped firmly in Ares’, we step off on the third floor. Here, there is another guard waiting down the hall we walk. And then our guard pushes a door open, extending a hand toward it.
The set of Ares’ shoulders is stiff. And his grip on my hand is starting to get painful. The muscles in his jaw twitch.
But his gaze is steely as he takes one breath. And then we cross the threshold together.
We enter into an office, and for a moment, I almost feel blind, it’s so dimly lit. There is only sconce lighting, glowing dimly on the walls. And these walls are lined with bookcases, their shelves filled with books, antiques, pictures. There’s even a skull right there.
A window dominates the back wall, and it gives us a glittering view of the dark horizon. And in the center, a huge desk dominates the space. Before it, there are two chairs that look like they cost more than I make in a year.
There, stepping around the desk is a man who fits exactly as I imagined him.
His eyes are dark, the exact same shade as Ares’. His hair is the same shade as well, though this man’s is combed back, a look that is old and modern at the same time. But while Ares’ face is clean-shaven, this man’s jaw is hugged by a neatly trimmed beard.
I wouldn’t immediately pick them out as father and son if I didn’t know, but I can see it.
“My son,” the man says. His tone is calm, his voice doesn’t rise. But he sounds pleased, happy. He walks right up to Ares and wraps his arms around him, though it looks more like a power move than a gesture of affection. “Welcome back.”
