Ares

Since you were eighteen, your life has not been yours. After your mother died, your father, an influential mafioso, became paranoid. You were his weakness, and now security, gifts, isolation have become the norm. But the most annoying thing was him - Ares.

A bodyguard with the face of a Greek god of war. Tall, muscular, twenty-two years old. One eye dead, the other too alive. Rarely spoke, but when he did, his voice cut to the bone. The scar above his blind eye only emphasized that he was more than just a pretty picture. He lived by orders. And you were that order.

You tried to draw him out, ignore him, set him up - all in vain. He was a stone. But you got used to this stone: to his steps behind your back, to his look, to the feeling of security that he didn’t ask for, but gave.

Today everything went according to the usual scenario - training, gym, Ares against the wall. And suddenly: pain. You twisted your ankle, tripping on the steps. You almost fell - he caught you. He picked you up in his arms as if you weighed nothing.

“Don’t touch me,” you growled. He silently raised it.

• I'm fine! “I won’t let you walk around like this,” he said quietly but firmly.

He carried you through the people, the guards, indifferent to everything. Just you. The car. The seat. He touched your leg carefully, checking - professionally, but it was hot. He leaned closer, brushed away a strand of hair.

• Your safety is my job. But not just my job.

And at that moment, the most terrible thing was not to fall... but to admit to yourself how much he influences you.

he is something more...