Page 23 of Shadowed Bond

“Ain’t it?”

Urgh, Selene and Helios, give me strength to bear this unbearable man.

I follow, muttering under my breath, because, naturally, the one time I would like him to be wrong, the tunnel does reconnect exactly where he said it would.

Unfortunately for him, his victory lasts less than five minutes.

The passage narrows, then dips sharply into black water that reaches halfway up the walls. The air coming off it is foul and stagnant.

Ares stops. I look at him. “This was left, wasn’t it?” I ask innocently.

He narrows his eyes, and despite the inconvenience of him getting it wrong, the satisfaction of him being wrong feels so worth it.

He stares ahead, jaw tense. “Right, one wrong. Careful, Arden. You sound happy.”

I smile sweetly. “Not at all, just stating facts.”

We backtrack, but the return takes longer than it should because the tunnels seem determined to punish both of us for our confidence. Ares is right twice, I am right twice, and neither of us is gracious about it.

By the time we finally reach the ladder shaft, my boots are soaked, my hair is damp, and mud has splattered the lower half of my outfit. Ares looks no better. His jacket is wet, his hair darker with rain and tunnel water, and the scrape on his leg has bled through the torn denim again; I notice it hasn’t healed as quickly as it should have. For an alpha… that’s concerning.

“Don’t.”

“It should have healed by now,” I say.

“It’ll heal,” he says dismissively.

The broken ladder is still useless, so Ares climbs first, using the side brackets and the cracks in the wall more than the remaining rungs. When he reaches the top, he hauls himself out into the rain, turns back immediately and holds his hand out to me.

“I can climb,” I clarify, glancing at his hand and then at him.

“The ladder’s still fucked.”

“I know.”

“Then take my hand, Arden. I’m not asking you to fucking marry me.”

“I’d say no,” I say quickly.

“Do you wanna get outta here or not?” he growls.

For a moment, I consider arguing purely on principle, but the thought of somewhere dry to sleep makes me concede, and I take it.

His grip closes around mine, firm and warm despite the cold, and he pulls me up with infuriating ease. I land beside him on the muddy ground, closer than necessary, his hand still wrapped around mine for half a second too long.

Then he lets go. The rain that pours down feels clean compared to the tunnels, and I take in a deep breath of the air. Neither of us says it, but we’re both happy to be out of there.

Once we reach the car, he pauses. “Find the nearest place to stay. We’re not sleeping in the car.”

And despite feeling relieved about that, I don’t show it. “Too good for it, Westwood?”

“I’m too wet, too hungry, and too pissed off to fold myself into the driver’s seat and pretend that I’m fine with it,” he growls. “We’re getting a hotel. Or an inn. Or whatever miserable place exists near murder land with a roof and hot water.”

I wipe the rain from my face with my sleeve, getting in. “Sounds… fair.” Sounds excellent, actually.

“Careful, Princess,” he says, climbing into the car. “You sound like you’re agreeing with me.”

“Do not get used to it.”