Ravenous Revenge

Chapter Nineteen- Ares

I arrive at the bar a half hour early, wanting to get a feel for the place before Lyssa shows up. Midnight Bar isn't exactly the kind of spot I'd expect her to choose—it's a dive, buried in the raunchiest end of town, far removed from the clubs and polished venues we usually find ourselves in. Maybe that's the point. Maybe she wanted neutral ground, a place where neither of us has the upper hand.

Still, there's something else about this place that gnaws at me. It's right on the border between my family's territory and where the Bratva's influence begins. I can't decide if this was intentional or just a coincidence. Lyssa doesn't strike me as someone tied to the Bratva. She doesn't even have an accent, and her name—Lyssa—it's not Russian. Wait. What is her last name?

I frown, realizing I don't know. She's never told me, and I never thought to ask. The oversight irritates me, like I've been careless, and I don't make a habit of being careless.

I shake it off and step further into the bar, taking in my surroundings. Midnight Bar is cramped, poorly lit, and reeks of cheap liquor and cigarettes. A jukebox hums in the corner, barely audible over the low hum of conversation. The floor is sticky underfoot, the kind of place where fights break out over spilled drinks or the wrong glance.

If she picked this place to fly under the radar, it's a smart move. Here, no one asks questions, no one pays attention unless it directly involves them. But then again, this is me we're talking about. Even here, I can't move unnoticed.

The side glances start the moment I walk in. The heavy stares from patrons nursing their beers, the cautious looks from bartenders and servers—all of them clock me immediately. It's not hard to figure out why. My suit, my presence, my very face—it screams two things: Italian and power. And in this city, that combination can only mean one thing.

The Don.

They know who I am, or at least, they think they do. And they don't like me being here. The tension in the air shifts, a hum of discomfort rippling through the bar as people adjust in their seats, like my presence alone is enough to disrupt their night.

I brush it off, leaning casually against the bar and signaling to the bartender. "Whiskey. Neat."

The man nods stiffly, his shoulders tense as he moves to pour the drink. I notice the way his eyes dart to the other end of the room, a quick, nervous glance. I follow it, spotting a group of men huddled in the corner, their gazes flickering between me and their drinks. Bratva, no doubt.

I smirk faintly, swirling the whiskey in my glass when it arrives. They're not a threat, not tonight. But their presence confirms my earlier suspicion. This place sits right on the edge of enemy territory, a line in the sand that neither of our organizations crosses lightly.

Why here, Lyssa?

I glance at the clock on the far wall. Twenty-five minutes until she arrives. Plenty of time to think, to prepare, to dissect this meeting and what she could possibly want from it. She knows something—something about last night, about Beast, about me—and I need to find out what.

But as I sip my whiskey, my mind keeps circling back to one thing.

Her.

Lyssa isn't just any woman. She's cunning, sharp, and utterly unpredictable. She's a fox playing in a den of wolves, and somehow, she keeps slipping through the traps. I hate the way she gets under my skin, the way she's already there, weaving through my thoughts like she belongs.

Like she had the same plan. Smart girl.

Lyssa bursts into the bar like a whirlwind of chaos, her energy crackling through the room the second she steps inside. She's twenty minutes early, which tells me she figured being ahead of schedule would give her the same edge I was looking for—time to assess the terrain, get a read on her surroundings.

But she doesn't get far.

She freezes the moment her eyes find me, seated comfortably in a booth at the back with a direct view of the entire place. I've been here long enough to pick out every exit, count every head, and clock the threats. Now, I have the upper hand, and I know she can see it.

I lift my drink casually, a silent acknowledgment that I've been watching her, that I'm already ahead of her.

Her eyes narrow, sharp and stormy, the kind of look that could cut through steel. Ah, yes. I'm in the doghouse.

I let out a slow smirk, savoring the way her fury turns her grey eyes into molten silver. The intensity there—anger, calculation, maybe even a little defiance—makes her all the more captivating. She's stunning, a lethal beauty that demands attention without even trying.

For a second, I almost forget myself. Almost.

Instinct kicks in, pulling me back to the present, to the quiet tension simmering beneath the surface of the bar. My body remembers before my mind does: enemies are nearby.

I glance around the room, my gaze sweeping over the patrons. Their reactions shift the moment Lyssa steps inside. Recognition flickers in their eyes, and the tension I'd brought with me starts to bleed away.

They relax.

The bartenders, the servers, even the regulars perched on their stools—they all seem to exhale in unison, like her presence alone is enough to smooth over whatever unease my arrival caused.

It's fascinating. And infuriating.

But what really catches my attention are the men in the corner. Bratva. They've been watching me since I arrived, their stares heavy with suspicion. Now, though, their focus shifts to Lyssa.

They don't just recognize her. They respect her.

I watch as their posture changes, their shoulders squaring, their hands drifting close to their weapons. They're not just watching her—they're ready to move for her. To protect her.

Jealousy flickers, sharp and hot, burning through my chest. It's irrational, but it's there all the same. The idea of anyone else, especially them, stepping in for her makes my jaw tighten.

I take another sip of my whiskey, my gaze returning to Lyssa as she starts toward me, her movements fluid but deliberate, every step calculated. Her fury hasn't dimmed, but there's something else in her eyes now.

Recognition.

She knows she's walking into my game. And she hates it.

Good.

Here's a refined continuation of that moment, keeping Ares's calculated yet playful tone intact and Lyssa's fiery nature at the forefront:

"Good evening, cara mia," I say, my tone laced with a subtle challenge. I know she'll rise to the bait—she always does. Is it wise on my part? Probably not. But f**k it, I love playing with her fire. The way her eyes blaze when I push just the right button is a thrill I can't resist.

Her lips press into a tight line, and for a moment, she doesn't say anything. She just stares at me, those stormy grey eyes narrowing into slits of molten silver. If looks could kill, I'd be a dead man.

"Don't cara mia me," she snaps, her voice cutting like glass. "You've got a lot of nerve sitting there like you own the place."

I smirk, leaning back in the booth with practiced ease, my whiskey swirling lazily in my hand. "But I do own the place—figuratively speaking, of course. The moment I walked in, it became mine. Just like this conversation, and just like..." I trail off deliberately, letting my gaze linger on her, "...you."

Her jaw tightens, and I catch the faintest twitch in her cheek—a tell, though she'd never admit it.

"I don't know what delusion you're working with," she says coolly, stepping closer until she's standing just across the table, towering over me. "But let me make one thing clear—you don't own me."

"Yet," I murmur, just loud enough for her to hear.

Her eyes flash dangerously, and I swear, for a moment, I see the exact moment she debates whether to slap me or stab me. Either way, it'd be worth it.

She slides into the booth across from me, her movements sharp and deliberate, like every step is calculated to reassert control. She doesn't bother hiding her annoyance, and honestly, I wouldn't want her to.

"You think this is a game?" she asks, her voice low and dangerous.

I set my glass down, my smirk softening into something more deliberate. "Everything is a game, cara mia. The question is, do you know how to play?"

Her lips curve into a cold smile, her tone dripping with venom. "Oh, I know how to play. The question is, do you know how to lose?"

Her words hit their mark, but I don't flinch. Instead, I lean forward, my elbows resting on the table as I meet her gaze head-on.

"Losing isn't in my vocabulary," I say softly, the smirk returning to my lips. "But if anyone could teach me, it'd be you."

Her eyes narrow, and I can almost hear her thoughts calculating her next move. She's like a fox backed into a corner, all sharp edges and lethal intent. And I love it.

Lyssa runs her tongue over her lips, wetting them, and I can't help but track the entire movement, my eyes lingering for just a second too long. Her lips are full, soft, and completely distracting—a contradiction to the hard look in her eyes. But there's something else there, just for a moment.

Frustration.

You're not the only one, principessa.

She lets out a forced sigh, her shoulders tensing as she leans back slightly, trying to reclaim the control she feels slipping. "What do you remember?" she asks, her voice low but cutting, each word measured and deliberate.

I tilt my head, swirling the whiskey in my glass as I consider her question. It's direct, sharp, and laced with an undertone I can't quite place—accusation, curiosity, or maybe both.

"Not much," I admit, leaning forward slightly, my elbows resting on the table. "It's... fragmented. Blurry. Like a dream you can't quite piece together."

Her lips press into a thin line, her stormy eyes narrowing as if she's trying to dissect my words, determine if I'm lying. I don't blame her. I'd doubt me too.

"And what do these... fragments tell you?" she presses, her tone sharp but controlled.

I let out a slow exhale, running a hand through my hair.

"Flashes. Sounds. Nothing concrete. I remember... anger, tension, and then darkness. And you."

My eyes meet hers, holding her gaze, steady and unyielding. "I always remember you," I say, my voice softer now, more deliberate. "I just don't remember... what about you."

Her expression doesn't change, but the flicker of something—confusion? Uncertainty?—crosses her face before she reins it in.

"You don't remember breaking into my apartment?" she asks, her voice like a blade slicing through the quiet tension between us. "Drugging me? Stringing me up like a f*****g trophy?"

The words hit like a freight train, sharp and unrelenting. I freeze, my body stilling as I process what she said. Drugging her? Breaking into her apartment? My jaw tightens, and I feel the familiar weight of dread sinking into my chest.

"No," I say evenly, though the weight behind the single word is anything but calm. "I don't."

Her lips curl into a bitter smile, and the laugh that follows is cold, devoid of humor. "Of course you don't," she says, shaking her head. "How convenient."

"Lyssa," I start, my tone soft but firm, "I'm not lying to you."

Her eyes flash again, that frustration bubbling back to the surface. "Then explain it to me, Ares. Explain how you show up in my home, tie me up, and... and use me—but can't remember any of it?"

The raw edge to her voice cuts through me, but I don't flinch. I can't.

"I don't have an explanation," I admit, my voice steady despite the storm churning inside me. "Not yet."

Her jaw tightens, and I can see the war waging behind her eyes—the clash between wanting to believe me and refusing to let herself trust me.

"Then why am I even here?" she asks, her voice low and biting. "If you don't know what happened, what's the point of this?"

"I don't remember what happened," I say, my voice steady but carrying the weight of the admission. "There are things about me that I don't think you'd understand or be able to fully comprehend."

I lean forward, my elbows resting on the table, the intensity in my voice matching the heavy tension in the air. My eyes stay locked on hers, searching for something—understanding, maybe, or at least the absence of outright disgust.

Her lips curl into a humourless smile, but it doesn't reach her eyes. "Try me," she says, her tone sharp and cutting.

I let out a slow breath, dragging my hand down my face as I considered my next words carefully. She's not someone who will accept half-truths or carefully constructed lies. But is the full truth? That's not something I can give her. Not yet.

"There are parts of me I'm still trying to understand," I say finally, my voice quieter now but no less firm. "You've seen it. You felt it. Last night—whatever happened—it wasn't the person sitting in front of you right now."

Her jaw tightens, her eyes narrowing as she leans back, crossing her arms over her chest. "That's convenient," she says bitterly. "So, what? You're saying you blacked out? That's the excuse you're going with?"

"It's not an excuse," I snap, my voice sharper now. "It's the truth. And whether you want to believe it or not doesn't change the fact that I'm trying to fix this."

"Fix this?" she echoes, her voice rising slightly. "You think this can just be fixed, Ares? You think you can sit there, tell me you don't remember, and that's supposed to make everything okay?"

"No," I say, my tone dropping, low and firm. "I don't think it makes it okay. But I don't have the luxury of pretending this isn't real. Something happened, and I need to figure it out. Because if I don't, it's going to happen again."

Her stormy eyes flash, her fury barely contained as she leans forward, her hands flat on the table. "You're right. It will happen again. And when it does, I won't be the one tied up and defenseless."

The sharpness in her voice cuts through me, but I hold her gaze, refusing to look away. "Good," I say simply. "Because I don't want you defenseless, Lyssa. I want you ready."

Her eyes narrow, and for a moment, there's nothing but silence between us. The weight of everything unspoken hangs heavy in the air, pressing down like a storm ready to break.

Finally, she speaks, her voice quieter now but no less fierce. "Then you better start talking, Ares. Because if you think I'm going to wait around while you piece this together, you're delusional."

I smirk faintly, though there's no humor in it. "I never expected you to wait."

Her jaw tightens, her gaze piercing as she rises to her feet, the chair scraping loudly against the floor. "Enjoy your drink," she says coldly, her voice dripping with finality.

And then she's gone, leaving behind the faint scent of jasmine and citrus that lingers in the air like a haunting reminder of everything I'm trying to figure out.

I sit back, finishing the rest of my whiskey in one slow, deliberate sip.

If she thinks she's walking away with the upper hand, she's mistaken.

But damn if she doesn't make me want to let her win.