Haven sat stiffly on the couch, arms folded tightly across her chest, her jaw clenched as she avoided looking at either of them.

Michael and Gabriel had positioned themselves across from her, both trying to figure out the best way to approach her.

Michael nudged Gabriel with his elbow. "Well? Say something."

Gabriel scoffed. "Why do I have to start? You literally pretended to be her bodyguard for months."

Michael gave him a dry look. "And look how well that turned out."

Gabriel rolled his eyes. "Fine." He turned to Haven, offering a smirk. "So... do you always try to stab new people you meet, or is Ares just special?"

Haven finally lifted her gaze, her expression unreadable. "You want to be the next special one?"

Gabriel blinked before breaking into a wide grin. "Damn, she's got some fight in her. I like it."

Michael sighed. "You're not helping."

Gabriel shrugged. "What? I'm just saying she's got spirit. That's a good thing."

Haven scoffed. "Right. Because I should be thrilled about being here."

Michael leaned forward, his voice calm but firm. "No one expects you to be thrilled, Haven. But you are here. And we're not your enemies."

She let out a humorless chuckle. "Right. And I'm supposed to just believe that?"

Gabriel sighed dramatically. "You wound me, sorellina. Do I look like the lying type?"

Haven shot him a glare. "I don't know what type you are, and I don't care to find out."

Michael watched her carefully. She was defensive, always prepared for a fight. She wasn't just scared. She was exhausted.

"We're not like Aerius or Vincent, Haven." His voice was softer this time.

She flinched. It was small—barely noticeable—but he caught it.

Her grip on her arms tightened.

Michael exchanged a glance with Gabriel before sighing. "let us prove it to you."

Haven shook her head, exhaling sharply. "You don't need to prove anything to me. You don't need to try. I know what this is."

Gabriel raised an eyebrow. "Oh? Do tell."

Haven let out a bitter laugh. "You think I don't see the game you're playing? You want me to trust you. To see you as family. To make me think you actually give a damn. And then what? Use me to go against Vincent? And once done you are going to kill me anyways?"

Michael's jaw tightened. "We don't need you for that."

Gabriel nodded. "Trust me, sorellina, we can handle those bastards just fine without playing mind games with you."

Haven eyed them suspiciously.

Michael leaned back slightly. "We don't expect you to trust us. Not yet. Maybe not ever. But we do expect you to listen. Because whether you like it or not, you're not alone anymore."

"You guyz are just exhausting me.. why don't you just tell me the plan.. if I can help you, I will.. if not you can go ahead and kill me, because I will be nothing but a liability"

Michael exhaled. "We're not Aerius. We're not Vincent. We're not going to control you or use you. You're free to make your own choices here."

She scoffed. "Right. Because I have so many options."

Gabriel smirked. "More than you think."

She rolled her eyes. "You sound so sure."

Gabriel grinned. "Because we're persistent."

Haven sighed, rubbing her temples. "I need air."

Michael stood up, stepping aside. "No one's stopping you."

She eyed him warily before getting up and heading toward the door.

Gabriel let out a low whistle once she was gone. "Damn. She really doesn't like us."

Michael smirked. "Give it time."

Gabriel leaned back, arms crossed. "You really think she'll ever trust us?"

Michael's eyes darkened slightly. "We will earn it Gabe."

.

.

.

The night was still, the cool air wrapping around Haven as she walked through the dimly lit garden. The mansion behind her loomed like a silent beast, its halls filled with people she wanted nothing to do with.

She walked with no direction, only needing to breathe—to escape the weight of everything pressing down on her.

The revelations.

The unfamiliar faces.

The chains of her past threatening to drag her back.

Haven exhaled sharply, shaking the thoughts away.

She wouldn't think about them.

She wouldn't think about him.

Not Aerius.

Not Vincent.

Not the men who called themselves her brothers.

She kept her arms wrapped tightly around herself, fingers digging into her arms as she moved along the stone path.

But just as she turned a corner—she slammed into something solid.

No—someone.

A quiet gasp left her lips as she stumbled back, her balance tipping.

But before she could fall, a hand gripped her wrist, steadying her.

The touch was firm, unyielding.

Haven's heart pounded as she looked up, only to be met with a broad, scarred chest.

Her breath hitched.

Slowly, her gaze traveled up—to a face carved from stone.

Ares.

Silent. Cold. Unshakable.

His dark eyes held nothing, not an ounce of emotion as he stared down at her.

Haven scowled, ripping her wrist free from his grasp. "Do you not own shirts?"

Ares didn't react.

Didn't blink.

Didn't even breathe.

His gaze dropped to hers, unreadable—as if she weren't even worth a response.

Haven huffed, annoyed at his presence.

Rolling her eyes, she turned to leave.

But the moment she stepped forward—sharp pain sliced through her foot.

A sharp gasp tore from her lips as she stumbled, her knee buckling from the sudden pain.

Haven barely had time to register the agony before two strong arms caught her.

One wrapped around her waist, the other gripping her wrist just tight enough to keep her from collapsing.

Her breath caught in her throat.

She didn't need to look up.

She already knew who it was.

Ares.

Again.

Haven stiffened.

For a second, neither of them moved.

She could feel the warmth of his bare skin against hers, the tension in his muscles as he held her without hesitation.

His hands were rough, calloused.

Scarred hands. A killer's hands.

Haven's pulse hammered.

And still—Ares didn't move.

Didn't push her away.

Didn't let go.

Didn't speak.

The air between them felt too heavy.

Too close.

Haven's jaw clenched. She wasn't going to stand here like a fool.

With a glare, she pushed against his chest, hard but he didn't move.

His eyes flickered to her foot, and without a single word, he moved.

Haven barely had time to react before Ares was crouching down in front of her, his large hands gripping her ankle gently.

Her breath hitched.

"What are you—"

She flinched as his fingers brushed against her skin, but he ignored her.

His touch was cold, clinical, as if she were nothing more than a wound that needed fixing.

Haven's brows furrowed in confusion as he tilted her foot slightly, his eyes narrowing when he saw the thorn lodged in her skin.

He pressed down lightly, making her hiss.

"You—"

Before she could finish, he pulled it out.

A sharp sting shot up her leg, and she gasped, her fingers curling into fists.

Ares's gaze flickered to hers, his expression as blank as ever.

And then—before she could process it—he picked her up.

Haven froze.

Her hands instinctively gripped his shoulders, but he didn't react.

Didn't flinch.

Didn't even acknowledge the weight of her in his arms.

He just carried her—effortlessly, like she was nothing.

"Put me down," she hissed.

Ares didn't.

Her nails dug into his skin, but he didn't waver.

Didn't blink.

Didn't speak.

She hated it. Hated how he was so unreadable, so silent, so damn unaffected.

The mansion loomed closer as he carried her inside, stepping through the dimly lit halls without a word.

When they reached the main hall, he finally set her down.

Haven immediately stepped back, her glare burning into him.

"What ar—"

But before she could say another word, he grabbed her foot again.

Haven gasped, her hands slamming against his shoulders to push him away, but Ares was already kneeling in front of her, his large hands wrapping a bandage around her wound.

His movements were methodical, precise.

He didn't look at her.

Didn't say anything.

Just—wrapped her foot in silence.

Haven's throat tightened as she watched him.

A lump formed in her throat, but she swallowed it down.

She didn't trust him.

She wouldn't trust him.

Ares finished, securing the bandage with a tight knot before standing.

His dark gaze flickered to her hand—the one wrapped in bandages from when she had stabbed him.

For a second, she thought he was going to say something—but he didn't.

Instead, he reached for his own injured palm, his fingers brushing over the fabric.

His gaze met hers, unreadable.

And then, finally—he spoke.

"Next time, aim for the heart."

And just like that—he was gone.

What do you thinkkk????