The gunfire faded.
Not abruptly — but in layers. First, the sporadic shots. Shouted commands. The heavy thud of boots pounding across soil.
Then, gradually, nothing but the restless rustle of leaves settling back into place.
Ares didn't move.
Not when his men fanned through the orchard. Not when someone called his name from a distance. Not even when the last echo of violence dissolved into uneasy quiet.
Lara was still pinned against him, half in his lap, half against the boulder, his arm locked around her like a steel band.
Only now she felt it. The warmth of his palms.
Her fingers, braced against his side, came away slick and dark.
Her breath caught.
"You're bleeding."
Ares glanced down as if mildly inconvenienced.
A spreading stain darkened the back of his shirt, just below the shoulder blade — jagged where debris or shrapnel had torn through fabric and skin. Not immediately fatal.
But not minor either.
"It's nothing," he said.
