The silence in the master suite was deafening, a stark contrast to the chaotic roar of the gala they had just fled.
The heavy mahogany doors were bolted shut. The sprawling room was dimly lit by a single, modern chandelier. In the center of the adjoining master bathroom, sitting on a backless marble stool, was Ares. He had discarded his ruined tuxedo jacket and his shirt. His pale, heavily muscled torso was covered in a fresh, horrifying canvas of blooming purple and black bruises—the physical receipt of Julian’s brutal assault on the dance floor.
Clara stood behind him, her hands trembling as she pressed an ice pack wrapped in a silk towel against the darkest contusion on his lower ribs.
"Hiss," Ares drew in a sharp breath through his teeth, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the
