The soft, desperate contact of the kiss lingered, a ghostly pressure on Lyra's lips even after Ares pulled back. The air in the elevator was so thick with their mingled scents—his strong, magnetic cedar-and-rain Alpha aura mixing with her own subtly panicked jasmine-and-spice Omega pheromones—it felt impossible to breathe.
Lyra took a shaky step back, her hand flying up instinctively to cover her mouth. "Ares. That was—"
"A mistake?" he finished, his silver eyes dark and self-reproachful. He had backed up immediately to the opposite wall of the elevator, acknowledging the boundary he had just crossed. "Don't bother lying, Lyra. It was the only honest thing either of us has done since you stepped off that plane."
She lowered her hand, her gaze flickering to the digital display above the door, which was climbing agonizingly slowly toward the penthouse floor. 56… 57…
"Honesty means acknowledging five years of separation, Ares," she stated, her voice regaining its steady, professional chill. "Honesty means acknowledging that kiss changed nothing. We are here under a truce—one hour, no past, no 'us.' If you break that again, I will have your security team forcibly remove you."
A faint, almost sad smile touched his lips. "You truly think anyone could remove me from you?" He didn't wait for an answer. "You're right. I apologize. That was an unforgivable relapse. I promised safety and a temporary cease-fire. You will have it."
He let his gaze drop to her hand, resting on the velvet box containing the sapphire necklace, which he still held. "The rules of engagement, however, allow me to provide comfort. Let me show you what I've built."
The elevator chimed, announcing their arrival at the Penthouse: Lyra's Star floor. The doors slid open to reveal a private, expansive foyer. It wasn't the usual polished marble and glass of a corporate hotel; the floor was a rich, dark cherry wood, and the walls were lined with silk-damask wallpaper in a soothing, deep midnight blue. The scent here was different, too—not the standard commercial fragrance, but the distinct, delicate aroma of rare white jasmine, Lyra's preferred flower.
"There is only one suite on this floor," Ares explained, stepping out and gesturing toward the double doors ahead. "It has been maintained, waiting, for the last five years. No one else has set foot in it."
He didn't wait for her permission, simply leading her into the massive living area. The suite was breathtaking, taking up the entire floor, offering a 360-degree view of the city. But what shocked Lyra wasn't the scale; it was the precision.
The main seating area contained the exact antique chaise lounge she had loved in their old manor. The rug was a faded Persian weave, the same pattern she had chosen for their honeymoon villa. Even the art on the walls—abstract cityscapes in muted greens and grays—were by the specific, obscure artist she had mentioned liking once, years ago, in passing.
"This is disturbing, Ares," Lyra said, her voice strained. She walked over to the floor-to-ceiling windows, looking out at the glittering cityscape, unable to look at him. "This isn't a suite. This is a monument to our past."
"It's a placeholder for our future," he countered, his voice steady as he placed the suitcase and the velvet box on a side table. "I built this to remind myself every day what I had lost. I didn't want comfort. I wanted a constant, physical reminder of the specific things you loved, the specific way you lived, and how much I failed to protect it."
He walked over to a wet bar stocked not with expensive liquor, but with a complex array of premium teas and tisanes. "You haven't eaten. Which is it? The Earl Grey that reminds you of your grandmother, or the Iron Goddess of Mercy you used to drink when you were plotting world domination?"
Lyra almost cracked a smile at the memory. "Iron Goddess, please. And I wasn't plotting world domination. Just a minor hostile takeover."
"Same thing," he murmured, his hands moving with practiced ease as he started heating the water and prepping the antique porcelain cups. It was an incredibly domestic, Alpha-caring gesture, and it was devastatingly effective.
"Why go to all this trouble?" she asked, leaning against the cold glass of the window. "You're Ares Kaelen. You could have any Omega, any life, any pack you want. Why cling to the one you willingly gave up?"
He stopped, turning to face her, the steam from the tea kettle swirling around his head like a halo of regret. "I didn't give you up, Lyra. I chose the pack's survival in a moment of panic and weakness, believing that you, the strongest Omega I'd ever known, would be fine. I chose the needs of the many over the needs of my heart. It was the only time in my life I've done that, and it cost me everything. Every conquest since then has tasted like ashes."
He carried the heavy porcelain teacup over to her, his large hands careful not to spill. Their fingers brushed as she took the cup, sending a familiar spark of recognition through her.
"I need you to look at me, Lyra," he commanded, not with an Alpha roar, but with a quiet Alpha plea, his eyes locking onto hers. "I am not the boy who broke under pressure five years ago. I am the man who has spent every day since then learning what true strength is. True strength is not power, it's loyalty. And my loyalty belongs only to you."
Lyra's control began to fray. The warmth of the tea in her hands, the familiar scent of the room, and the palpable sincerity of his regret were overwhelming her defenses. She could feel the fragile construct of her anger beginning to crumble beneath the sheer weight of his Alpha devotion.
"Five years is a long time, Ares," she managed, taking a small, shaky sip of the tea. "People change. They move on."
"Not when the love was real," he countered, leaning in until his shadow fell over her. "And ours was real. It was destined. That bond, Lyra, is still humming beneath your skin, screaming at you to stop fighting me. Look around. You're home. You just don't want to admit it."
He reached out slowly and gently placed his Alpha hand on the curve of her neck, just behind her ear, resting his thumb on her pulse point. The contact was soothing, proprietary, and utterly paralyzing. He wasn't demanding anything; he was offering comfort.
"One hour," he reminded her softly. "We have twenty minutes left. Spend it resting, Omega. You look exhausted."
Lyra felt her resistance soften. She closed her eyes, letting the heat of his hand and the familiar, safe Alpha scent seep into her. Maybe, just for these twenty minutes, she could pretend that the last five years—the pain, the struggle, the secrets—had never happened.
She opened her mouth to accept the truce, but before she could speak, the private line to the suite—a line Ares had assured her was completely secure—buzzed urgently.
Ares frowned, a flicker of annoyance crossing his face. He moved to the comm panel, hitting the answer button. "What is it?" he snapped, his voice instantly back to the ruthless CEO Alpha she remembered.
The voice that answered was Lyra's aunt, Elara, sounding panicked and breathless on the other end. "Ares? Is that you? Thank goodness! Lyra, I—I need you here immediately! There's been a mix-up with the itinerary! Caleb's sick, and the school called the wrong guardian, and now the Children's Services representative is at the house!"
The teacup slipped from Lyra's suddenly numb fingers. It hit the thick rug with a soft, muffled sound, but the sound of her aunt's words—Caleb's sick, school, Children's Services—was a deafening crash.
Ares turned, his fierce Alpha attention instantly shifting from the comm panel to Lyra. His brow furrowed in confusion, registering her expression of pure, visceral terror.
"Caleb?" Ares asked, his voice low, cold, and razor-sharp. "Who the hell is Caleb?"