Chapter 17: An Attack
1002 Words
The ride back to the penthouse was silent, but it wasn’t cold.
Elara sat curled against Ares’s side in the backseat of the black SUV, her head resting lightly against his shoulder.
His arm stayed wrapped around her, his thumb stroking slow, absentminded circles against her arm, as if he needed constant proof that she was still there.
Still breathing.
Still his.
He hadn’t let go of her since they left the café.
And Elara hadn’t tried to pull away.
For once, the silence between them wasn’t heavy with anger or betrayal.
It was thick with something else.
Something raw.
Something real.
But underneath it all, a strange unease prickled at her skin.
She chalked it up to exhaustion.
The last few days had been a nightmare.
Of course she was on edge.
But when the car turned down the private drive leading to Blackwood Tower and she saw the normally brightly lit lobby shrouded in too much shadow—
her gut twisted.
Something was wrong.
Very wrong.
⸻
Ares stiffened beside her.
He saw it too.
The car rolled to a stop at the private entrance.
The driver—a silent, trusted man named Grant—glanced at Ares in the rearview mirror.
One look.
One nod.
Grant reached under his seat and retrieved a gun.
Ares helped Elara out first, shielding her with his body as he scanned the entryway.
The elevator to the penthouse waited, doors open as usual.
Inviting.
Too inviting.
He kept one hand firmly on her lower back as they entered the elevator, standing between her and the open doors.
Elara’s heart pounded so loudly she could barely hear the soft hum of the lift ascending.
She clutched Ares’s sleeve without thinking.
He didn’t look at her.
But he placed his free hand over hers and squeezed.
Hold on.
Stay close.
⸻
The doors opened into the penthouse’s private foyer.
Dark.
Too dark.
Normally, discreet recessed lights would glow along the walls.
Tonight, they were dead.
Ares pulled Elara in behind him, his body a solid shield.
He motioned for Grant to move first.
The driver slipped silently down the hall, gun raised, scanning corners.
Step.
Step.
Step.
Nothing.
Ares relaxed slightly.
Maybe it was a malfunction.
Maybe it was—
The crash came without warning.
A window shattered somewhere down the corridor, glass raining down like shards of ice.
And then—
movement.
Fast.
Heavy.
A masked figure lunged from the shadows.
Straight for Elara.
⸻
The next moments blurred into chaos.
Elara screamed—pure, raw terror—as rough hands grabbed her, dragging her backward.
She kicked out wildly, her heel connecting with a shin.
The attacker grunted but didn’t let go.
Ares roared—an inhuman sound—and charged.
Another man appeared, swinging a metal baton, aiming straight for Ares’s head.
Ares ducked under the blow, pivoting, grabbing the man by the collar and slamming him into the wall with bone-crunching force.
Grant fired once.
The sound deafened Elara.
One of the masked figures dropped.
Blood pooled on the marble.
She twisted violently, biting the hand covering her mouth.
The attacker cursed, loosening his grip.
It was enough.
She broke free—staggering, falling hard onto the floor.
Pain bloomed in her hip.
But she didn’t care.
She scrambled away on her hands and knees.
⸻
Ares was there a second later.
He shot the second man—non-lethal, Elara realized dimly—clipping his leg.
The man crumpled, writhing.
Ares kicked the weapon from his hand with brutal efficiency.
Then he was at her side, grabbing her, hauling her against him.
“Are you hurt?” he demanded, his hands skimming her body, checking for blood, for breaks.
“I’m fine,” she gasped.
A lie.
Her whole body shook.
Her ears rang.
She could barely think.
But she was alive.
Alive because of him.
⸻
Security finally stormed in, armed and shouting.
The remaining attackers were subdued within seconds.
Ares barked orders—rapid, clipped, lethal.
Lockdown protocols.
Medical teams.
Forensics.
Everything moved in a blur of black uniforms and sharp commands.
But Ares never let her go.
His hand stayed locked around hers, grounding her as chaos roared around them.
“You’re safe now,” he said into her hair, again and again.
As if he needed to convince himself more than her.
⸻
Later—hours later—the attackers were dragged away in handcuffs, bleeding and groaning.
The penthouse was sealed off.
The windows were boarded.
Guards took every exit.
Only then did Ares allow himself to breathe.
Only then did he carry Elara—literally lift her into his arms—into the master suite, away from the c*****e.
He set her down gently on the edge of the bed.
Elara sat numbly, staring at her shaking hands.
Ares knelt in front of her, tipping her chin up.
His eyes were wild.
Haunted.
Rage still simmered beneath the surface, but now it was threaded with something deeper.
Terror.
“I should have known,” he said, voice raw.
“I should have protected you.”
“You did,” she whispered, throat burning.
He shook his head, gripping her knees as if anchoring himself.
“I almost lost you,” he rasped.
Elara leaned forward, resting her forehead against his.
“You didn’t,” she whispered.
“You didn’t.”
⸻
They stayed like that for a long time.
No words.
No plans.
Just heartbeats pounding in sync, shuddering breaths shared in the darkness.
⸻
When Ares finally spoke, his voice was a broken whisper:
“I will never let anyone hurt you again, Elara. I swear it. I swear it on everything I am.”
Elara wrapped her arms around his neck and held on.
Not because she was weak.
Not because she was broken.
But because sometimes strength meant knowing when to let someone else carry you.
And right now—
Right now, Ares Blackwood was the only thing holding her together.
⸻
- Writer
