Ravenous Revenge

Chapter Eleven- Lyssa

I wake up feeling like my brain's been beaten with a bag of rocks, the weight of grogginess pressing down on me like a f*****g vice. My thoughts stumble over each other, sluggish and disjointed. What the hell happened?

I keep my eyes shut, forcing my mind to focus. Think. What's going on? My limbs feel like they're floating, light as air, but there's something wrong. Something's off.

And then I feel it—the shift of movement behind me. My eyes snap open in a heartbeat, and I'm met with my f*****g bed. Except I'm not in my f*****g bed. I'm staring down at it.

The sick realisation hits me like a slap across the face. My body's suspended from the ceiling. The weightlessness gave me no control. f*****g bastard drugged me.

The flash of memory hits. Ares. That bastard. That fight, that moment when I thought I had him—until he pulled his sneaky s**t. His smug face flashes in my mind's eye.

The bastard's going to pay for this. Once I'm out of whatever this is, there's no way I'm letting him get away with it. He's poked the wrong f*****g bear.

Ares steps into my line of sight, his movements fluid and deliberate. He lowers himself onto the edge of the bed with an ease that feels almost unnatural, his gaze locked onto me. But something doesn't sit right. I've spent months studying Ares, tracking his patterns, memorising his rhythms. He's precise but impulsive—a man who doesn't waste time masking his emotions. I know how his rage fuels him, how his arrogance seeps into every word.

This? This feels different.

"Oh, good, you're awake." His voice rumbles low, vibrating with a calm that doesn't match the situation. His head tilts, like he's savouring the moment. "Tell me, little fox, are you ready to play?"

The words send a chill through me. Not because of what he's said—but how he's said it. There's a new weight in his tone, an almost predatory undercurrent that wasn't there before. It's subtle, but I don't miss it.

I clamp down on my unease, forcing my instincts to sharpen. The tension in the air feels heavier than it did in the alley, like a storm on the brink of breaking. But this isn't the Ares I know. His raw emotions, his barely concealed fury, are missing. What's left is something colder, more calculating.

I hate that it rattles me, even for a second.

But no matter how different he feels, he's still Ares. And Ares is just a man—a powerful man, a dangerous man—but a man all the same.

I steel myself, focusing on what's in front of me. Whatever this shift is, it doesn't matter. I'll adapt. I always do.

With a deep breath, I use the only weapon I have left. My words. My lips curl into a mocking smirk as I feel my defiant nature building.

"Oh, you're trying so hard, aren't you? Play a game." I let my tone drip with condescension, my smirk widening. "What's the plan here, Ares? Tie me up and play pretend? You're trying so hard to be intimidating, it's almost cute. Think I can't get out of restraints? Your male ego bruised because a girl beat you?"

He comes into view, his eyes narrowed, jaw tight, the muscles ticking in a silent rhythm.

I tilt my head, letting the smirk deepen. "Face it! You're nothing without your money and your name. Strip those away, and you're just another spoiled little boy trying to play the big bad wolf. Is this your idea of a power trip? Pathetic."

Ares steps closer, his movements sharp, his breathing heavier. My heart hammers in my chest, but I bury the panic. Cool. Collected. He can't know I'm rattled; can't know I feel out of control.

"You can keep trying to scare me, but we both know the truth." My voice levels, cutting like glass. "You're weak, Ares. Hiding behind your toys, your men, your reputation. You don't even know what real power looks like."

The tension between us sharpens, a crackling pressure that presses into my skin. For a moment, I wonder if I've gone too far. His expression doesn't change—calm, almost eerily so. But the tick in his jaw? That, I notice. I mark it for later, a tell in the poker game of survival.

He leans forward, his face inches from mine, his scent invading my senses. That's when his lips curl into a feral grin.

"You think you know who I am?" His voice rumbles low, primal, sending a shiver down my spine. "You have no idea who you're dealing with."

The sound of his voice, that guttural edge, stirs something unwelcome deep inside me. My body doesn't seem to care that I'm in danger. It reacts to him like he's a thrill instead of a threat. It's maddening.

Ares moves out of view again, but I can still sense him—every movement, every subtle noise catalogued in my mind. He's by my dresser now, fumbling with something. A bag, maybe?

"Tell me, little fox," his voice rumbles, low and unnervingly steady, "were you ever going to tell him you're a killer?"

My stomach twists, my thoughts racing. A killer? How does he know? Who is he?

But then his words sink deeper, bringing with them a realization that chills me to the bone. Him? Why is he talking about himself like he's someone else?

I shove the stray thought aside. There are more pressing matters at hand. I focus on the restraints, twisting my wrists to test the give, but damn it—he tied me up too well. The bindings barely budge, biting into my skin with every attempt.

Then I hear him.

"Tsk, tsk, tsk," he drawls, his tone a mix of amusement and warning. "Oh, little fox, already trying to leave me? That's not happening anytime soon. Not until you've answered my questions."

He moves closer, his presence suffocating as his shadow looms over me.

"So tell me..." His voice drops, chillingly soft but with an edge that cuts. "Were you ever going to tell him you're a killer?"

Before I can react, he yanks my head back by my hair, forcing me to meet his gaze. His eyes—intense, unyielding—are nothing like the Ares I've studied. They burn with something darker, something I can't quite name.

In his other hand, he holds a blade, larger than the one I used against him. The steel gleams under the dim light as he guides the flat side across my cheek. The cold metal sends a shiver racing down my spine, but I refuse to flinch.

"You might as well tell me the truth," he says, his tone like silk over steel, smooth yet lethal. "Because one way or another, I'm going to get my answers."

I swallow, but my throat feels dry and thick. I need to play this smart—every word must be calculated. I need to answer his questions, but I can't give too much away. At the same time, I need to figure out how much he really knows.

His grip tightens in my hair, but I manage to keep my expression neutral, locking eyes with him. I can't let him see me falter.

"What makes you think I'm a killer?" I ask, my voice steady, though sharp. I give the impression I might cave, but there's an unmistakable edge of defiance in my gaze.

He lets out a dark chuckle, the sound sending a shiver down my spine. "I see the darkness within your soul. It matches mine. He may not have been able to lay eyes on you and see you for what you are, but I did. Your demons spoke to me, little fox. I just want to hear you admit it. But your defiance... it's testing my patience. You will be punished for this."

As his words sink in, I tense, expecting the worst. In a fluid motion, he draws his knife from my face and slices it across my leg. Pain shoots through me, sharp and brutal, and I let out a pained whine before biting it back.

For some strange, incomprehensible reason, something stirs inside me—an undeniable rush, a tightening in places I shouldn't even want to feel it. I fight the instinct to react. I am not weak. I will not give him that satisfaction.

"Fine," I whine, cringing at how wanton I sound. Control, Lyssa. Control.

"I am a killer. Is that what you want?!" I spit out, watching as my blood slowly drips onto the bed.

His response is slow, deliberate. "Yes, little fox." He presses his face to my hair, inhaling deeply, as if savouring the scent of me. He exhales on a sigh, as if finding some twisted sense of relief in the admission.

"To start," he clips, gliding his blade across my leg again. I hiss, controlling my response more this time, feeling the sharp sting crawl beneath my skin, but I swallow it. I will not give him the satisfaction.

An idea flickers to life in my mind, faint but persistent. He wants answers. He wants to play.

I can give him that—just not the way he expects.