The armored transport tore through the city, the heavy rain blurring the world outside into streaks of neon and shadow. Inside, the cabin was a sanctuary of silence. Ares sat with his back against the reinforced wall, his eyes closed, his breathing measured and deep. The adrenaline that had fueled his ascent to the ballroom podium was rapidly receding, leaving behind a cold, sharp ache that radiated from his spine.
Clara sat beside him, watching him with a mixture of terror and fierce, unwavering protection. She saw the way his hand gripped the armrest—not out of comfort, but to keep his tremors from becoming visible.
"The nerve-blocker is wearing off," she whispered, her hand hovering over his shoulder.
Ares opened his eyes. They were clear, focused, and utterly devoid of the rage that
