The General's Daughter: The Mission

Breakfast was laid out in the east garden, not in the formal dining hall where every clink of silver sounded like judgment, but beneath a white-stone gazebo that could seat two dozen people.

Morning light poured through the lattice roof in soft gold ribbons, warming the marble floor and turning the dew on the grass into scattered diamonds.

Climbing roses had claimed every arch, their thorny vines twisting like they owned the place. Cream, blush, and deep crimson blooms spilled overhead, heavy with perfume — sweet, intoxicating, almost too lush for something as ordinary as breakfast. Petals drifted down now and then, landing on the surroundings like quiet confessions.

At the center sat an octagonal stone table, cool and pale, groaning under the weight of excess.

Flaky croissants still warm enough to steam when torn open.

Dark rye, honey wheat, brioche glossy with butter.

Bowls of jewel-bright jam, whipped cream cheese, salted butter soft as silk.

Platters of sliced fruit arranged with obsessive perfection — strawberries like red glass, mango cubes glowing amber, grapes dusted with frost, and unpeeled bananas.

Crystal carafes of orange and pomegranate juice caught the sunlight like liquid fire. Beside them, a sleek espresso machine hissed softly, breathing out the rich, bitter scent of fresh coffee — dark, expensive, unapologetically adult.

It wasn’t breakfast but was a display of wealth disguised as hospitality.

And right now, it had become a battlefield.

Asher, Logan, and Lucas crowded around Lara like overeager bodyguards who’d forgotten their actual job, piling food onto her plate with competitive intensity.

”Try this one.”

”No, this is better.”

”Lara, you need protein.”

Within seconds, her plate looked like it belonged to someone preparing for hibernation.

Across the table, Liam said nothing. He simply slid a plate of carefully sliced fruit toward her — quiet, deliberate, intimate in a way that didn’t ask permission.

Ares’ fingers tightened around his coffee cup.

The ceramic creaked.

His wound burned beneath the bandage, each pulse of pain sharp and punishing —, but it was nothing compared to the slow, ugly heat building in his chest.

They were too close and too comfortable.

Too familiar.

His gaze locked on Lara, tracking every movement — the way she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, the faint crease between her brows when she tried not to offend anyone, the soft curve of her mouth when she thanked them.

She hadn’t looked at him once.

Something dark and territorial rose up, primitive and unreasoning.

He wanted to drag her chair closer.

Wanted to strip that overloaded plate away and replace it with something he chose.

Wanted everyone else gone.

Before he could act—

”Wow, Mommy,” Shay breathed, eyes wide with awe. ”You have sooo much food.”

The innocence in her voice cut clean through the tension.

Lara’s expression softened instantly. She picked up a warm croissant, tore it in half, and placed pieces onto the children’s plates with practiced ease.

”Sharing makes it taste better,” she said gently.

Another piece went to Sandro.

Just like that, the abundance became comfort instead of excess.

”Ares, you’re injured. You should be resting.”

Scarlet’s voice flowed in smooth and syrupy, dripping concern. She leaned in close — closer than necessary — the faint scent of expensive perfume trailing after her like a signature.

She placed a stuffed croissant onto his plate with careful hands, as if feeding a dangerous animal she believed herself immune to.

”I brought your favorite.”

Ares didn’t even glance at her.

”I don’t like croissants,” he said flatly. ”Take it away.”

Scarlet blinked, stunned.

”But... you used to love these.”

Ares’ eyes lifted slowly — not warm, not apologetic, just cold enough to sting.

”That was before. I don’t like them now.”

Before what, he didn’t say.

Before you. Before this. Before her.

Scarlet’s hand trembled slightly as she withdrew, wounded pride flashing across her face.

The tension tightened, thin as wire.

”Daddy... are you angry?”

Shay’s soft voice broke through it, uncertain, careful — the way children speak when they sense storms adults pretend aren’t there.

She pushed her plate toward him, tiny hands determined.

”Here. You can have my sandwich. Mommy made it for me.”

The offering was crooked, slightly squashed, wrapped in absolute sincerity.

Ares didn’t hesitate.

He took it.

Took a bite.

Something in his face eased as he chewed, the hard lines softening just enough to prove he was still human under the mask.

Across the table, Asher stared at him like he’d just witnessed a crime.

”Brother,” he said slowly, incredulous, ”did you seriously steal food from a child?”

Ares swallowed, completely unbothered.

”She offered.”

”Shameless,” Asher muttered, shaking his head.

Lara’s eyes drifted to Ares despite herself.

He did look better. Color had returned to his skin, replacing the ghostly pallor from earlier. Strength radiated off him again, dangerous and steady, like a storm that had decided to wait instead of leave.

Which made it worse.

Because he shouldn’t be here at all.

He should be in bed. Healing. Resting. Not sitting upright at a table like pain was something other people suffered.

She couldn’t understand why he insisted on being present... unless absence felt more dangerous to him than the wound itself.

Unless leaving her out of his sight wasn’t an option.

”Ares,” Lara looked at him. ”Didn’t the doctor tell you to stay in bed? The wound would heal faster if you rest.” Her voice was gentle and calm.

”It is just a minor scratch. Nothing to worry about.”

Lara wanted to argue. She saw the wound, and it was no minor one. But she reined herself. Discussing such matters over breakfast was not pleasant at all.

...

”Mommy, can I ride the pony now?”

Shay’s small fingers curled into the hem of Lara’s white shirt, tugging insistently, her wide eyes already shining with anticipation.

Lara looked down at her, lips parting — then her gaze lifted across the table.

Straight to Ares.

She didn’t ask out loud. She didn’t need to.

Permission in this house wasn’t always spoken... but it was always given — or denied — by him.

Ares held her gaze for a long beat, something unreadable moving behind his dark eyes. Possessiveness. Concern. Something softer he refused to name.

”Yes,” he said finally, voice calm but edged with authority. ”You can. But be careful.”

Relief flickered across Shay’s face.

”Don’t worry, Princess,” Asher cut in smoothly, flashing his usual charming grin as he pushed back his chair. ”Daddy Asher will take you.”

Shay wrinkled her nose, unimpressed.

”But I want Mommy,” she insisted, clinging tighter to Lara. ”Mommy promised.”

The words landed heavier than they should have.

”Okay, then. I’ll accompany you and your Mommy.” Asher said in an indulgent voice, but he was not looking at Shay.

He was looking at Ares, a glint in his eyes as if challenging him.