Page 21 of The Coven of Ruin

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Momentarily forgetting how to breathe, she took in The God of War. He leaned into her, his hip pressed against her side. The moment felt like an eternity as his gaze traveled over her face and down her exposed neck.

When he guided her upright again, she whispered, “You can’t be here. I’ll tell the guards. I’ll… tell the king.”

“You realize better than anyone,” he murmured as he pulled her closer again a little too sharply, “that I could kill everyone in this room before the song even finished.”

He could, and the Cursebringer most certainly would.His hand found her chin and tilted it upward so they were staring into each other’s eyes. She knew both fear and wonderment filled her own, but she nodded once.

“I suppose this means you know now who they say I am,” he breathed, searching her expression for the answer. He found it in the form of tears threatening to spill over her lashes.

“I see,” he said with a slow nod of his head.

“What do you want from me? Have you come to collect the life debt?” Violet heat siphoned through her, her magic’s response to the threat, readying for battle. But she knew that ifhewere her opponent—he would usher her to death’s door with little effort. She hadseenhim.

“I can’t just want to dance with you? This is a far better circumstance than when we originally met. And you are a better dancer than a fighter.”

Trista turned her head away, her cheek brushing against his chest with how close they were, to look out at the other dancers. The desire to be free of him, to snatch her hands away from him and run, was overwhelming.

“As for myself,” he continued, “I much prefer battlefields over dancehalls.”

He was toying with her. Rage filled spaces deep in her lungs, daring her to scream, to unleash her magic, to hurt him before he hurt her. He was an enemy—the villain in every story of every witch. A bloodthirsty warrior, a weapon formed in flesh, amurderer.

Even the way he danced was indicative of that. All cold precision. Not stiff, not careless. It was like he had thought ten moves ahead and knew where she would mess up, so he already had his hands in place to redirect her step or body. His actions were effortless and elegant.

Trista would have laughed at the absurdity of it if she didn’t know just how well his movements translated in combat. She dared to look back up at him again. Ares wasn’t looking at her, and his face was as expressionless as his mask. He was studying the crowd the same way she remembered him doing in The Arena. As if it were a battlefield.

“Are you going to hurt me?”

Expertly moving them around the other couples, he continued to ignore her.

She felt a hysteria rise in her chest, tightening her throat. “Or anyone here? Ares,please.”

His gaze turned back to her when she said his name, one corner of his mouth twitching into a frown.

“I’ll pay the debt, whatever it is…” she trailed off, trying to imagine what he could need from her. What could a witch with only the skill of healing give a god of war?

Jaw flexing, he didn’t respond once again. And as the last notes of the song strummed, he twirled her out one last time. Then, as if he had done it a thousand times before, he bowed over her hand, his other arm behind his back, a picture of gentlemanly behavior. His lips brushed over her flesh, leaving a touch of fire in their wake.

Leaving her fixed in place, he simply stalked away. He didn’t look back once. The dancers parted for him as if he was the master of the hall. Halting next to someone, he placed his hand on his shoulder and leaned in to be heard. The other man’s head turned toward her, a deep blue mask shimmering in the light, and she felt as if she was being sized up. A couple bumped into her, the mage barking out a curt, ‘move out of the way’ as they did. Finally stepping away, she looked back once more into the crowd, but they were gone. Her heart pounded heavily in her ears, drowning out the music.

It was as if as they danced, the entire spell woven into the atmosphere had untangled, leaving her just as undone and exposed.

Having dreamt of gold rooms in dark castles and a god covered in blood, she spent the entire next day glancing around, waiting to see his tall form somewhere. She was both terrified of seeing him and of never seeing him again. It was a battle within her that made her chest clench. Her panic was right below the surface, a constant companion as she went about her day, threatening to pull her under at any minute.

Trista had skipped out on breakfast with the excuse of being tired, but Demurielle had refused to let her stay in her room for lunch. As her friends questioned her about where she had gotten off to last night, and updated her on their dance partners, she felt barely present. She listlessly pushed the food around on her plate. Wondering when he would show up left her so on edge that even the clattering of dishes had her jumping out of her seat. On top of that, whether she should tell someone nagged at her.

Witch King, good morning. Yes, I believe the Cursebringer is here. How do I know? Oh, I danced with him just last night.

Demurielle pinched her arm as they walked back to their rooms from lunch. “What iswrongwith you?” she confronted her. “You literally blinked in response to Prince Roan when he greeted you, and I asked you about that tall mage you were dancing with last I saw you, and you just grunted at me.” Equal parts exasperated amusement and concern coated her words.

“I don’t know, Dem, I think I’m just tired from last night,” she offered with a small smile that took more effort than it should have.

Her friend’s eyes softened, “I think we all are. Let’s nap and meet up before dinner! The Witch King is announcing the events for the season. And I can’t wait to see what that bratty witch from The Coven of Sea wears,” Demurielle mused, her lips pursing in thought. Trista laughed disingenuously, causing Zyana to eye her suspiciously.

“Honestly, does she think that the prince will notice her more the less she has on? I mean, I’m not condemning her tactics—by any means necessary and all of that! It’s smart,brilliantactually, but…”

“Well, I’ll see you two at dinner then,” Trista said hurriedly as she opened the door to her room. She leaned heavily against it once it was shut, placing her hand firmly on her chest.

Perhaps he had just been there to take care of something and had seen her. It was probably nothing. A fluke. She certainly was not cursed because he had marked her, and he certainly was not coming for her debt. And though she was able to talk herself out of breaking down this time, she didn’t really believe her own reasoning.