Ares (Contemporary Mythos Book 3)

It was a typical day on the battlefield. The sun blazed over my bronzed skin as scents of blood, metal, and sweat wafted through the air. Athens and Sparta still at each other’s throats. Particularly today, after Athens launched a surprise attack, leaving an entire village decimated. And I remained on the Spartan side, as I always had. Moments ago, my shield cracked from repeated blows of an Athenian Warhammer. I threw it to the sandy dirt and adjusted the Corinthian-style helmet, glaring through the narrowed openings. Several soldiers advanced toward me. I growled, tossing my dark braid behind me and pulling my xiphos sword from its sheath.

A man with a javelin through his chest flew past, landing on his back with a gurgle. Mars stormed ahead, clad in his matching Spartan armor, no helmet, and a fully intact shield clutched to his left forearm. The leather pteruges flaps swung with the tunic draped over his legs as he launched himself to the fallen man, grabbed the javelin, and yanked it out in one swift motion.

Mars turned to me, a wicked grin playing over his lips. His beard was longer than I remembered, braided at the tip. A braided headband circled his head, continuing down his back to the middle of his shoulder blades.

“Where’s your shield?” He asked.

“I had to beat an Athenian hammer with it. And your helmet?” I swung the sword once, biting my lip at the mere sight of him.

He side-stepped across the sand to my side. “I see better without it.”

As the Athenian soldiers trudged forward, flying their blue banners high, Mars slammed his shield into the face of one man and jabbed his javelin into the chest of another. He ducked as a sword flew over his head, jumped, and struck downward, stabbing the soldier in the neck. He yanked the xiphos from the fallen man’s sheath and tossed it to me.

“Are you going to join me?” Mars asked with a smirk.

I caught the sword and twirled them both in my hands before slicing one man across the face—once upward, once downward. As he stumbled, I spun around and dragged both blades across his abdomen. Another soldier with a shield ran up to me, and I sliced at the bronze covered metal several times until his grip weakened, his shield flying to the ground. I slashed both blades across his chest, carving them away from each other. Planting a single kick into his chest, I sent him flying into Mars’s awaiting javelin point.

We grinned at each other before his smile faded into a frown, glaring over my shoulder. I crouched, ready to strike, but Mars lunged, stabbing him in the chest. Another ran up behind Mars, and I used his shield to propel me, slashing one sword across the man’s sternum. I spun behind him and stabbed the other sword through his neck. We removed our blades from our kills in unison as another soldier with a shield saddled between us.

Mars stuck him in the chest with his javelin as I ducked under Mars’s arm and slashed the man across the stomach. Mars threw his shield into the man’s face, knocking him to the ground.

“They’re retreating,” a Spartan soldier yelled.

A sea of blue plumes scattered away from us on the battlefield. I slid my helmet off, dragging a palm over my sweat-soaked forehead.

Mars peered at me through tendrils of smoke from burning arrows embedded in the ground. Embers floated past our faces, and we both knew what the other was thinking. We’d save the celebration with our fellow soldiers for later. Running to our tent, no sooner had the flap dropped, we were a fury of flying metal greaves, bracers, sandals, and tunics.

Both devoid of confinements, his mouth crashed against mine. The rate of my heartbeat rivaled that of the battle we’d just fought. My fingers dug into his hair as I pressed my chest against his, swirling my tongue into his mouth.

More. I needed more.

Dirt, blood, and sweat caked our faces, but we didn’t care. It only added to the ferocity of the fight—the passion of war. I pushed my palms against his chest, backing him to the nearest table. Pulling away from the kiss, he let his bottom lip drag through my teeth. I stared up at him with carnal need.

I didn’t need to say the word “more” out loud. He knew. He always knew.

He snarled, grabbed my hips, and hoisted me onto the table. I wrapped my legs around his waist, waiting for him to fill me. He kissed my neck, giving it a tender bite before plowing into me. My head flew back…

…and my eyes burst open. I sat up straight in my hotel bed, panting, sweaty, and confused.

A dream? But it all felt so real. I clutched the sheets, needing something physical to ground myself. Through the darkness, a pair of dark eyes stared at me. Mars sat on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, leaning forward.

I jumped. “What the hell is wrong with you? Why are you staring at me in the dark like a complete creep?”

“Well, I would be sleeping if someone hadn’t been battling in her sleep.”

My throat dried. “What do you mean?

“Judging from the way you twirled your arms around, I’d say you were fighting with a sword. Two, maybe?”

I hugged my knees to my chest. “I was fighting you. And winning, might I add.”

“Uh, huh.” He smirked. “Your battle cry was so loud I’m certain the rooms on either side of us are awake too.”

“You’re telling me you never move in your sleep?”

He interlaced his fingers, letting them hang between his knees. “You also kept repeating the word ‘more.’”

My chest tightened. “Right. I wanted to kill more of you. One wasn’t enough.”

“Oh, really?” A corner of his lip lifted. “Because you were moaning it.”

My lips parted. He stared at me—challenging me to come up with an excuse for that one.

“I’m going back to sleep.” I turned my back to him and flopped my head on the pillow.

“Óneira glyká,” he whispered.

“I hate you too.”

He let out a deep, raspy chuckle. I pinched my eyes shut, praying once I fell asleep, the dream didn’t pick up right where it left off.

MMA weigh-ins. One of the most awkward yet necessary events in any fight. They couldn’t allow someone over the weight for their division. They put fighters on display like a piece of meat—scale and all, in front of hundreds of people. It was one of the rare moments I let my hair down and did my make-up, on Chelsea’s insistence, of course. No fighting. Simply undressing to my skivvies, getting weighed, and having a ten-second stare down with my opponent.

I sat in the locker room with my hoodie zipped up to my neck, staring at the tiled floor. Mars had stepped into one of the stalls to change. What could he possibly need to change into for a simple weigh-in?

The stall’s door creaked open, and he walked out in a crisp black suit, thin black necktie, and a white shirt. He moved past me to the mirror, adjusting his tie and smoothing back his hair, ensuring the bun secured it at the back of his head.

I sat up straighter, ignoring the flip my stomach did. “It’s just a weigh-in.”

“I’m a professional.” He cocked an eyebrow at my reflection in the mirror. “What do you think I should be wearing? Jeans and a polo?”

For some reason, I couldn’t picture him in such an outfit. It didn’t suit him. I shrugged and glanced at the clock hanging on the back wall. “Where the hell is Squirrely? I need to be out there in five minutes.”

“I dismissed him.” Mars adjusted his wristwatch, not looking at me.

Heat shot up my neck, and I stood. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I dismissed him,” he repeated, lifting his eyes to meet mine. “Sent him home.”

“Only for the weigh-in, right?”

Strong fingers worked the buttons of his jacket. “For as long as I’m your bodyguard.”

“What?” I slid in front of him. “You don’t have the right. He’s my coach.”

He puckered his lips before standing up straight, towering over me. “I inherited the right as soon as I signed the contract to guard you. The fewer people in your space, the easier it is for me to do my job.” He clasped his hands in front of him. “You never needed him, and you know that.”

He was right. How could he possibly be right so much of the time and not know me?

“Regardless, he’s still my coach. Every fighter needs one.”

“I’ll be there. Do you want to keep up appearances in the ring? Ask advice? Ask me.” There was a glint in his eyes as he stared down at me, waiting for a response.

I clenched my fist until my knuckles cracked. “Unbelievable,” I said under my breath, turning away. “Let’s get this over with.”

After exiting the locker room, I waited in the wings as my opponent did her weigh-in. Priscila Andrade. Brazilian. Five-foot eight and said to be a jiu-jitsu master. We’ll see about that. Mars loomed behind me, and I risked a peek over my shoulder. He slid his Aviators on and cocked his head to the side, cracking his neck.

“And now for the bantamweight champion of the world,” the announcer started.

I shook my hands as I walked toward the stage with Mars close behind me.

“Harm ‘The Amazon’ Makos.” The announcer’s voice said through the loudspeakers.

My brow furrowed, not making eye contact with my opponent yet. The generic black scale beckoned me as I slipped off my shoes. I unzipped my hoodie and slid it off, turning to Mars.

“If you insist on being the only member of Team Makos, that makes you the clothes rack.” I tossed him the jacket.

His lips thinned as he threw it over his shoulder.

The sweatpants came off next, inside out, and I didn’t bother fixing them.

“Take it off,” a man yelled from the crowd.

Mars’s hand clutched my pants once I handed them to him, a growl vibrating in the back of his throat as he peered at the audience from behind his sunglasses.

I stood on display in only a sports bra and booty shorts to have my weight announced to the world. It may have been mortifying in any other profession, but it didn’t faze me anymore. Climbing onto the scale, I brushed my hair over my shoulder and stuck my chest out, staring at the fluctuating red numbers of the digital display.

Catcalls and whistles poured from a group of men in the audience. Mars tossed my clothes at his feet and stormed into the crowd. My chest tightened, unable to move or speak until they announced my weight.

“This isn’t a burlesque show,” Mars said to the group of men, pointing at them.

One laughed and slapped a hand over his chest. “Oh, come on, man. Lighten up. We’re just having fun.”

“134.4 for the champion,” the announcer said.

I forced a fake smile, raising a fist in the air as the audience cheered. Squinting against the bright lights beaming on the stage, I watched Mars, hoping he wasn’t stupid enough to start a fight here, of all places.

Mars ripped the sunglasses from his face, nostrils flaring, and leaned forward. One man crawled over the back of his seat while the others held their forearms up.

“Sorry, man, sorry,” the leader stammered.

Mars narrowed his eyes before slipping the glasses back on and making his way to the stage.

I licked my lips as I approached my opponent for our eternal stare down. Moving into a fighting stance, I clenched my jaw. She mirrored my position but stood straight and held up her middle finger inches from my face.

Keep cool, Harm. She wants you to lose it.

I could hear Chelsea’s pleas from wherever she watched.

I fought every compulsion not to bite her finger off. Once the stare down was complete, I smacked her hand away. She gave me her best shit-eating grin before sauntering over to the announcer.

“Priscila, I sense a bit of contention here. What was that all about?” The announcer said into the microphone before holding it out to her.

“Makos has won two fights. She’s not ready for me.” She leaned past the announcer, pointing her forefinger and thumb at me like a sideways pistol. “Have you fought enough people to beat the sting of a crackhead trailer trash mama away yet?”

The crowd gasped, and I saw red. The fury festered, boiled, and clawed at my chest, begging me to set it free. Guilt soon followed. They were merely petty words spoken by an idiot. And yet, I still let them eat at me. The sound of Mars’s feet sliding behind me kept me at bay as the announcer walked over. He frowned, not saying a word, and simply held out the microphone.

“You watch this piece of trailer trash humiliate you in the cage tomorrow,” I snapped and shoved my fist in the air, facing the crowd.

Not bothering to collect my clothes, I stormed off the stage. If I caught sight of her smug face, I knew it would all be over.

“Harm,” Mars called after me, but I kept moving, plowing through the locker room and out to the parking lot.

The sunbaked asphalt stung against my bare feet, but it helped soothe the screaming beast. The door swung open. Mars threw his arms out at his sides with my clothes draped over them. He threw my shoes at the ground near my feet, and I stumbled into them. He opened his mouth, and I held a hand up.

“Let’s just get back to the room.” I pulled on the car door handle—locked. My shoulders drooped in defeat, and I stared at my reflection in the window.

Mars stepped beside me, the sleeve of his jacket brushing against my bare arm. He pressed a button on the passenger side door, unlocking it before opening it for me with slow and calculated movements. He held my clothes out, and I grabbed them, flopping onto the seat.

The entire car ride to the hotel, we were silent as the grave. On occasion, I’d catch him staring at me in the rearview only to shift his eyes back to the road unabashedly. It was like he didn’t care I saw him.

Once back in the room, I tried to slam the door behind me, forgetting my living shadow. His palm slammed into the wood with a snarl.

“That’s going to be the last time you slam a door in my face,” he said, locking it behind him.

“Or what?”

He turned around with narrowed eyes, sliding the jacket off and tossing it to one bed. “Is that why you really do it?” He loosened the tie, slipping it off, and pulled the white shirt from his pants, working his fingers down the buttons.

“We’re not talking about this.” I threw my hands in the air and marched past him to the bathroom.

“You’ve been fighting for yourself a long time, haven’t you?”

“Are you deaf?” With my hand on the doorknob, I swung the door. But instead of it closing or his hand hitting it, the door flew open and slammed against the tub behind it as a gust of wind rushed through the room. Mars seethed from the opposite side of the doorway, yanking his shirt off and tossing it aside.

“Don’t make the mistake of thinking you’re the only one with family issues.” His bare arms bulged from his tank top—the chainmail armor tattoo flexing with every twitch of his muscle.

“Daddy cut you off?”

He cracked his knuckles against his palm. “Disowned.”

“Why?”

“My…temper.” One side of his lip twitched as his gaze fell to his feet.

“I never even knew my dad.” The words flew out of my mouth before I had a chance to stop them. I pinched my eyes closed. “Fuck. I don’t know why I told you that.”

We fell silent and stared at each other through the doorway. I wanted to tell him more about me—about my past. The thought terrified me, but what was more frightening…was I wanted to know more about him.

My eyesight went black, and a wave washed over me. The ancient horns were so loud this time that I had to clamp my hands over my ears. I staggered backward, unable to see where I was going. My calves knocked against the tub, and I started to fall. A large, rough hand caught my wrist, and the world snapped back to normal.

His eyes roamed over my face, making my chest flush. “What just happened, Harm? What aren’t you telling me?”

His mouth was so close to mine, his beard brushed against my chin. I shook my head and stood up, pulling my arm from his grasp. “Nothing. I got dizzy. Didn’t exactly sleep well last night.”

Mars rolled his shoulders, staring me down like he knew I was lying straight through my teeth.

“Shower and rest up, then. You got an ass to kick tomorrow.” He left the bathroom, leaving the door ajar.

I wrapped my arms around myself and ran a hand down my face. I’d kicked Priscila’s ass, sure, but I’d also been doing a fine enough job beating up my own.