Chapter 231: "Make It Up To You"

Jordan picked up his tea, blew gently across the surface, and took a measured sip before setting the cup down again.

He’d already had tea that afternoon, but after everything Aren had just told him, another serving of caffeine seemed entirely reasonable.

Across the coffee table, Aren sat on the opposite sofa, watching him with growing apprehension.

She’d finished explaining several minutes ago, yet Jordan hadn’t said a word. He’d simply sat there, staring at some indistinct point on the floor, occasionally reaching for his cup as though the ordinary act of drinking tea might help him organize his thoughts.

She resisted the urge to interrupt.

She’d anticipated confusion, perhaps disbelief, even anger. But the longer his silence stretched, the harder it became to guess which of those reactions he was experiencing.

At last, Jordan spoke.

"So you said it all started on the morning of the last Summit?"

Aren nodded.

"Yes."

"And Caio Sartori knew about this?"

"Yes."

Jordan absorbed that answer, though his expression tightened almost imperceptibly.

"And you’re actually trained well enough to handle twenty men at once?"

"Extensive training against teams of twenty or more was essential for maintaining stamina during missions involving open battlefield engagements," Aren explained. "So I believe I can handle the matches at the Pit without much difficulty. Which is why I don’t think you need to worry about me."

Jordan felt a muscle twitch near his eyebrow. She spoke with such earnest confidence that he almost wanted to laugh, except nothing about the situation struck him as remotely funny.

Over the past hour, she’d told him things that should have been impossible.

Another world.

Another life.

Her arrival in Ariana Lombardi’s body on the morning of the Summit, and the elaborate deception that had followed.

He’d spent most of the conversation struggling to reconcile her account with everything he understood about reality. Yet the more she explained, the more the seemingly inexplicable details of their relationship began falling into place.

’No wonder she handles weapons like she’s been using them her entire life.’

He remembered the ease with which she’d thrown him around during sparring. He remembered what she’d done with the metal wires in the Dark Room, the confidence of her movements, and the unnerving precision with which she’d handled situations that should have frightened her.

’And here I was wondering where she learned all that. She was trained to kill people professionally. In an actual fucking war.’

And then there was the part of her story he couldn’t stop thinking about.

’She said she died during a mission because she detonated a bomb herself.’

’Because, at the time, she considered it the optimal solution.’

Jordan stared at the floor.

He understood the logic of sacrificing oneself to accomplish an objective or save a loved one.

He’d been raised in House Marchetti, where duty was often placed above personal desire and sometimes even survival. But understanding the principle was different from imagining his girlfriend making that decision.

The way she’d described it disturbed him almost as much as the event itself.

There had been no particular anguish in her explanation. No indication that she’d regarded the choice as extraordinary. To her, it seemed to have been a difficult operational decision, certainly, but ultimately one justified by the circumstances.

Across the table, Aren noticed his expression darkening.

She’d been watching him carefully, searching for some indication of how he felt about her confession. Now, seeing the distress on his face, she could only conclude that the truth had finally begun to upset him.

’Of course he’s angry.’

She’d deceived him from the beginning. He’d been affectionate toward her, trusted her, called her his girlfriend, and believed all along that the woman he was holding was Ariana Lombardi.

Her chest tightened.

"I’m terribly sorry for deceiving you all this time."

Jordan’s thoughts halted.

When he looked up, her gaze was fixed on her hands, her expression earnest and increasingly troubled.

"I know how much you like this body," she continued hurriedly, "but the truth is that I’m only inhabiting it. My actual body, in my own world... I had rougher skin and considerably more scars."

Jordan stared at her.

She hesitated, searching for an explanation that might help him understand.

"Most of them came from fieldwork. But, well... genetically speaking, I wasn’t particularly good-looking to begin with. So I understand if you’re disappointed. I’m very sorry for letting you believe I was Ariana."

For several seconds, Jordan could do nothing but blink.

’She’s apologizing to me... for what?’

He’d been sitting there imagining the circumstances of her death, struggling with the knowledge that the woman he loved had once considered her own life expendable.

Meanwhile, she apparently thought he might be disappointed to learn that her original appearance had been less conventionally beautiful.

He looked at her downturned face, the nervous way she held her hands together, and felt a fresh ache in his chest. Of all the things she could have taken from his silence, that was the conclusion she’d reached.

"I think you’re mistaken."

Aren looked up, puzzled.

"...Mistaken?"

"Yes."

He let out a small breath and tried to put his thoughts into words she wouldn’t misunderstand.

"I won’t pretend I don’t find the body you’re in attractive. Of course I do. But if Ariana Lombardi were still the person living in it, I’m not even sure we’d be sitting here together."

Aren frowned.

"What do you mean?"

Jordan considered how best to explain, then decided there was little point in keeping something so simple from her.

"I saw you at the park."

Her brows rose.

"At the park?"

"After the Summit," he clarified. "I wasn’t following you, I swear. I’d gone out because I wanted some fresh air."

A faint flush crept up his neck, but he made himself continue.

"Then I saw you sitting in the rain. I got curious, so I watched for a little while. And later, I saw you pick up Biscuit."

She searched her memory.

She remembered the park, the rain, and finding Biscuit there. But she couldn’t recall seeing Jordan anywhere nearby.

"I didn’t see you at all."

"I was pretty far away."

He gave a small, embarrassed smile.

"But that’s what I’m trying to tell you. When I went to the Lombardi Hotel afterward, I didn’t go because I wanted to see Ariana Lombardi. And delivering that package myself wasn’t the real reason, either."

His expression softened.

"I went because I wanted to see you."

Aren stared at him.

"You... did?"

"Yeah."

He nodded, looking embarrassed by how obvious his feelings seemed in retrospect.

"I wasn’t close to Ariana before, but I had a general idea of what she was like. You, though..." His cheeks warmed. "You felt different. You were just... really pleasant to be around."

Aren’s expression softened.

"Thank you."

A smile appeared on her face, and for a moment, Jordan thought he’d finally managed to put her mind at ease.

But her smile didn’t last.

She looked down at her hands, and when she spoke again, her voice was subdued.

"Aren’t you angry that I didn’t tell you anything until now?"

He considered the question seriously.

"Honestly? I’m more bewildered than angry."

"Bewildered?"

"Very."

He glanced toward the tea on the table, as though it might help him find a sensible way to describe what was happening inside his head.

"You just told me you’re a trained operative from another world who died during a mission and woke up in someone else’s body. That’s not something I ever imagined could realistically happen. And now that you’re telling me it actually did happen, I have to rethink practically everything I thought I knew about you. About a lot of things, really."

A faint, helpless smile crossed his face.

"It’s... dizzying."

Aren nodded slowly.

If their positions had been reversed, she would have wanted an explanation too. A thorough one, preferably supported by evidence.

Yet Jordan hadn’t demanded proof, suggested she was delusional, or insisted that she undergo some kind of medical examination. He was simply trying to understand her.

"I’m sorry about that."

"Don’t be."

He watched her for another moment, then drew a quiet breath.

"I think... I should be the one apologizing."

She looked startled.

"Why should you?"

He hesitated, suddenly ashamed as something occurred to him for the first time.

"I kept telling you that I love you. But all this time..."

His eyes dropped to the floor.

"I wasn’t even calling you by your name."

Aren went still.

She’d prepared herself for anger, disbelief, perhaps even the possibility that he would no longer want to be with her after learning the truth. Instead, he was apologizing for something she hadn’t even considered holding against him.

She opened her mouth, searching for a way to reassure him, but before she could speak, Jordan rose from the sofa. He walked around the coffee table and stopped in front of her.

To her surprise, he knelt.

"Jordan, what are you—"

"Hey."

He reached for her hands, taking them gently between his own.

"Can you tell me your name again?"

Aren blinked.

"My name?"

"Earlier, when you started telling me everything, you said it pretty quickly. And it sounded a little foreign to me, so I don’t think I caught it properly."

His thumbs moved lightly over her knuckles.

"But I want to say it right."

The request caught Aren so completely off guard that, for several seconds, she could only stare at him.

Jordan remained kneeling before her, holding her hands with the same quiet attentiveness, apparently content to wait however long she needed.

Yet there was something in his eyes that made her chest feel strangely tight. An unmistakable yearning, as though hearing her name mattered to him far more than she could understand.

"It’s... Aren."

Her voice came out so softly that she wasn’t certain he’d heard her.

"It’s Aren," she repeated, managing a small smile.

"Aren," Jordan echoed slowly.

He sounded out the syllables with deliberate care, as though committing them to memory.

"Like... Ah-ren?"

"Yes." She nodded. "But with a shorter ’A.’ Aren."

"Aren."

He tried again, adjusting his pronunciation, and this time, the unfamiliar name came more naturally to him.

It was a strange experience, learning the name of someone he already knew so intimately.

He knew how she kissed him, how she held his hand, and how easily she could make him forget whatever had been troubling him simply by being nearby. Yet until this moment, he’d never known what to call her.

Not really.

And now, with her hands resting in his, saying her name felt like being introduced to his girlfriend for the first time.

"And you said you were... eighteen?"

"Yes."

"God." He ran a hand through his hair. "You’re still younger than me."

She tilted her head.

"Is that a problem?"

"No. Not at all." He shook his head immediately. "It’s just..."

He trailed off.

How was he supposed to admit that her age had been one of his private insecurities all this time?

He’d believed she was older than him, and although he’d never thought there was anything wrong with that, he’d sometimes worried about how she perceived him.

He’d tried not to dwell on it, but the fear had lingered whenever he was unsure how to behave around her, particularly when she seemed so composed and capable.

Now, he’d discovered she’d been eighteen all along.

The knowledge brought an odd, almost embarrassing sense of relief. But it lasted only a moment before another realization followed.

’She was only eighteen when she died.’

The thought made his stomach turn.

He couldn’t find a way to express any of it without making her feel she had another reason to apologize. So instead, he reached up and cupped her face, drew her gently toward him, and kissed her.

Aren made a small sound of surprise, but she didn’t pull away.

"...Jordan?"

She returned the kiss, her hands rising to cup his face. When he finally drew back, he looked at her with a tenderness that left her uncertain what to say.

"Can I make it up to you?"

"...Make what up to me?"

He brushed his thumb over her cheek.

"For earlier, I mean. When I called you Ariana. It must have felt... unpleasant."

Aren went quiet.

He hadn’t known the truth then, and she’d never expected him to feel responsible. Yet somehow, he’d recognized how the moment had affected her without her having to explain.

The realization touched her more deeply than she knew how to express, so she lifted both hands to his face, cupping his cheeks in return.

"...Can I make it up to you too?"

Jordan’s breath caught.

A low groan escaped him before he could suppress it.

"Come here."

He leaned toward her, and their mouths met again. Warmth returned between them so naturally that, for a moment, it was difficult to believe they’d spent the past hour discussing something that had overturned his understanding of the world.

Aren found herself responding with equal tenderness.

She could feel how much he’d missed her. More than that, she could feel his relief that she was still here, still allowing him close, even after telling him something that might have changed the way he saw her.

But something about the way he kissed her had changed.

Earlier, he’d been impatient, almost overwhelmed by how badly he’d missed her. Now there was a gentleness beneath the hunger, a deliberate care that made her feel as though he were holding something precious.

When they finally parted to catch their breath, Aren happened to glance at the clock on the wall.

"Don’t you want to get back to the workshop?" she murmured. "I think our break is over."

Jordan felt a sharp pang of regret.

He’d completely forgotten about work. Unfortunately, remembering it made him no more willing to let her go.

"Yeah."

He kissed her again.

"Our break is long over."

Despite acknowledging that fact, he made absolutely no attempt to move away. Instead, he drew her closer and kissed her with renewed intensity, leaving Aren faintly puzzled about whether he’d actually understood which break she meant.

’Should I try to remind him again?’

She was still considering the question when one of his hands slipped down to cup her breast, and a gentle squeeze drew a small whimper from her.

"Mm... Jordan..."

He looked at her, his expression softening at the sound.

"Does it feel good?"

"Yes."

She nodded, her cheeks warming.

"Very good."

The answer seemed to encourage him. His other hand left her cheek and traveled slowly downward. But rather than stopping at her other breast, it continued to her thigh, where he gave her a gentle squeeze.

"Mmm..."

Aren drew a quiet breath.

By now, she’d gained enough experience with sexual intimacy to recognize what that particular gesture often meant. When a hand lingered on her thigh like that, it generally didn’t remain there for very long.

Sure enough, Jordan’s fingers began moving higher, and she felt her pulse quicken as his hand approached the space between her thighs.

"...Jordan?"

She looked at him uncertainly.

"You want to...?"

He stopped and looked up.

"Can I?"

Aren swallowed hard.

His voice had grown low, and a deep blush had spread across his cheeks. Despite his earlier confidence, he now looked almost shy.

She parted her thighs slightly.

"Yes."