The General's Daughter: The Mission-Chapter 127: Wrong Woman At His Bedside

Lara slipped into the mansion through the back entrance. The Norse siblings peeled off without a word, leaving her alone with the small, trembling body in her arms.

The pup was barely conscious, fur matted with dried blood and dirt, ribs sharp under her fingers. She worked quickly, hands steady, breath slow — the way you learn to be when panic has never saved anyone.

When she finished, the little black pup was clean, stitched, and sleeping, chest rising in fragile, stubborn breaths. She placed him gently inside a padded cage, lingering for a second as if making sure life had truly decided to stay.

Only then did she head to the side garden.

Sunlight spilled across the grass where Shay and Sandro were chasing each other, laughter cutting through the quiet like music in an empty house. The moment Shay spotted her, she froze — then bolted.

"Mommy! Where have you been?"

The little girl crashed into her, arms flung wide, voice full of that pure relief only children give — as if the world had been tilted off its axis until she returned.

Lara set the cage down carefully before scooping Shay up, holding her tighter than usual, pressing a kiss into her hair that smelled like sunshine and soap. For a moment, she just breathed her in.

Safe.

After a while, Shay wriggled down and noticed the cage sitting on the grass.

Her eyes lit up instantly.

"Mommy... did you bring this for me?" She dropped to her knees, face nearly pressed to the bars. Inside, the tiny black pup blinked awake, dark eyes glossy but alert, studying her like she might be something miraculous. "He’s so cute...but he’s hurt."

There was something achingly soft in the way she looked at him — not just excitement, but longing. Like she’d already decided he belonged to her.

Lara’s voice came out quieter, gentler than usual. "If you want... you can have him. His name is Midnight."

"Midnight..." Shay tested the name like it was candy on her tongue.

"I want him, Mom!" Shay announced.

Sandro was suddenly at her side, crouching low to peer inside. The pup’s ears twitched, head tilting as he watched them both, cautious but curious — a survivor sizing up his new world.

Two children. Warm grass. Gentle voices.

Maybe, for the first time, it didn’t look like a battlefield.

"Hi, Midnight," Shay whispered, slipping her fingers through the bars.

The puppy inched forward, nose trembling... and licked her.

And just like that, he was theirs.

...

In the master’s bedroom on the second floor, Ares lay flat on his back across the massive bed, dark sheets bunched beneath his shoulders like storm clouds.

The room smelled faintly of antiseptic — the kind of scent that never fully left men like him. A doctor bent over his side, hands steady as he stitched torn flesh with practiced precision.

Up close, the wound looked brutal. A jagged three-inch gash carved into his ribs, edges burned and angry, shrapnel damage — the kind meant to kill, not warn.

Blood had been cleaned away, but the violence of it still lingered in the swollen skin, in the tightness of the muscles flexing beneath every pull of the needle.

Ares didn’t flinch. He didn’t hiss and did not even blink.

He stared at the wall in front of him, face carved from stone, jaw locked so tight a vein pulsed at his temple. Pain was just another language his body spoke — one he’d learned to ignore a long time ago.

Asher stood beside the bed, arms folded, shoulder leaning against a carved post, watching his brother the way one studies a bomb that might or might not go off.

"Where is Larissa?" Ares asked, voice low and rough, like gravel dragged across concrete.

Asher snorted. "How should I know?"

Before Ares could respond, laughter floated in from the balcony — light, bright, and alive. The sliding door stood slightly open, sheer curtains stirring in the breeze like ghosts trying to slip inside.

Shay’s giggle. A boy’s answering shout.

Then Lara’s voice, warm but firm, threaded with that quiet authority she carried without trying.

"Careful. Don’t run too fast."

Something flickered across Ares’ face — so quick it might’ve been imagined. Not softness. Not quite. But the iron in his expression loosened by a fraction.

Asher caught it anyway. Of course he did.

"Bro," he said, grin sharpening, "there she is. Want me to call her?"

Before Ares could answer — or deny it — a knock cut through the room.

Asher pushed off the bedpost and opened the door.

Scarlet stood there, perfectly composed, like she’d stepped out of a lifestyle magazine instead of a home.

She wore a silk blouse and soft makeup. A tray balanced in her manicured hands — porcelain, silverware, fresh fruit arranged like an offering.

"Ares," she said sweetly, stepping inside without waiting to be invited, "the maid said you did not have breakfast yet, so I brought it to you."

Her eyes lingered on him — not the wound, not the doctor, not the blood-stained gauze. Just him.

Annoyance flashed in Ares’ gaze, cold and sharp as broken glass.

Scarlet didn’t see it. From her angle, he looked calm. Untouchable. The kind of man women mistook for safe because he wasn’t loud about his danger.

"I am not seriously injured, Scarlet," he said flatly. No warmth. No gratitude. Just dismissal wrapped in politeness. "Take it back. I’ll come down later."

A beat of silence.

Then his eyes slid toward her, irritation hardening his voice.

"Why are you here and not observing Shay?"

Scarlet blinked, caught off guard — like someone had just turned off a spotlight she’d been basking in.

In the past, Ares had never been distant, yes... and never this cold. Never this openly uninterested.

"Oh... okay. I’ll go find Shay."

Her smile strained at the edges as she set the tray on a side table anyway — a small act of defiance disguised as care. She cast one last look at the bed, at the doctor securing the final bandage across Ares’ torso, at the hidden six packs she’d probably imagined touching under very different circumstances.

Then she left. The door clicked shut, and silence dropped like a curtain.

Asher waited exactly one second.

Then—

"What’s the deal with that woman?" he asked, brows lifting. "You two are a thing now?"

Ares’ expression didn’t change, but something colder settled into his eyes.

"She’s an intern at Hope Hospital. Under Doctor Chavez — Shay’s psychiatrist." His tone was clipped, factual. "Part of her program is observing the subject in an informal environment."

Asher let out a low chuckle, shaking his head.

"Yeah... that’s not what it looks like."

Ares said nothing.

Outside, Shay’s laughter rang out again — closer this time. Softer. Safe.

Asher glanced toward the balcony, then back at his brother, a knowing smirk creeping in.

"Because from where I’m standing," he said lazily, "she’s not studying Shay."

His grin widened, sharp and merciless.

"She’s studying you."