Even now, with a whole second life in her hands, her heart trembled at the sight of their love. That was the part she could not forgive.
She needed to be away from all of it. She went down the long empty corridor of the palace to her private chambers and shut the great double doors on the world behind her.
To cleanse herself of the pathetic feeling, she sank into a steaming bath and sat there among the flickering candles until her fingers wrinkled, and made herself an unbreakable promise.
She would never love Ares again. That weakness was dead. She had buried it herself.
Later, wrapped in an elegant white nightgown, she uncorked a bottle of wine, and her resolve went from stone into steel. She stood at the grand arched window looking out at the moonlit sky, and a new plan began to take shape in her, and it was a ruthless one.
Soon, she promised herself. Soon she would be free of this detestable room and the entire cursed life it stood for.
But the wine was not doing its job.
She kept trying to drink the image away — the square, the arms, the quiet agreement — and it kept coming back, so she poured again and told herself that one more glass would do it.
When she stumbled to her feet the room began to turn. Her white nightgown caught around her ankles, her balance went out from under her all at once, and she pitched forward with a cry, straight over the balcony railing and into the night air.
In her drunken haze, her new life was about to be cut very short.
Then, before she could fall, a powerful arm closed around her waist and snatched her back from the drop.
She was pulled hard against a solid chest, white silk against dark robes, and when she looked up, dizzy and slow, she was staring directly into Ares's concerned eyes.
He held her steady.
"You've had more than enough to drink."
Averifa was absolutely floored. Her thoughts came apart and reassembled around a single burning question.
Why was Ares here?
A short time later the two of them were in her room, and the air was thick with everything neither of them was saying.
She sat clutching the lace trim of her nightgown and went straight to the point.
"What do you want?"
Ares let out a heavy sigh.
"The victory celebration is tomorrow. You need to sober up."
Then he crossed the room and sat down right beside her on the plush blue couch, which made her visibly uncomfortable.
"And the audacity of a man who walks into a woman's room at this hour," she said. "Have you any idea—"
But Ares, in his simple dark robe, was not here for pleasantries, and he came out with his real motive without decorating it.
"Lorenza came to me. She says you bullied her." He looked at her steadily. "I wanted to hear your side of it."
A bitter understanding went through Averifa. She took a slow sip from her glass.
So the woman had gone crying to him. The woman who had crossed a courtyard to pick the fight herself.
Ares watched the disdain settle onto her face, and it confused him.
"What is that supposed to mean?"
Averifa opened her mouth to explain, and the exhaustion and the wine hit her together like a carriage. Her head slumped forward, and she passed out cold against his shoulder.
He went still for a moment. Then he let out a quiet sigh.
What a selfish woman, he thought.
His hands, meanwhile, betrayed him entirely. He gathered her up gently and carried her to the bed, and set her down, and drew the covers over her.
"Sweet dreams," he said softly, and turned to go.
He had taken barely a step when her hand shot out and closed on his dark sleeve.
In her drunken sleep, Averifa murmured a name.
"Lynn."
Ares froze. His piercing blue eyes widened over an emotion that could not be read at all.
He carefully pried her fingers from his robe, one at a time, and left the room without a sound, closing the great double doors behind him.
The next morning she woke and was immediately stunned.
Laid out for her was a gown of pristine white — and there was no mistaking what kind of gown it was. It was a bride's dress.
Before she could even begin to question the insane thing, a maid came in to announce that Colonel Finareo and Lord Lynn had arrived to see her.
Averifa walked into the receiving room, and both men — crisp in their white uniforms, medals pinned across Finareo's chest — were struck completely silent at the sight of her in it.
She could hardly blame them. She turned to the colonel with a smirk.
"Did whoever picked this dress have it out for me?"
The man went flustered. He hesitated, and then he gave up the shocking truth.
"The Marshal selected it himself, my lady. Personally."
Averifa was floored. She stood there in a wedding dress in the middle of the morning, trying to decide whether Ares was playing some cruel joke on her, or whether the man was simply, comprehensively, a fool.