Page 6 of The Coven of Ruin

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“Let’s give them a show,” Ares murmured. “Either of you good with a spear?”

He quickly laid out a loose plan which revolved around making them look as useful and heroic as possible. Khier rushed off to grab the spear that Ares had spotted while Farin ran wide to flank the wolf. It finished disemboweling the last fighter before tipping its snout up to sniff the air. Craning its head, the beast’s eyes of black void affixed on Ares, who had positioned himself in its line of sight.

Bounding forward, it gained speed. Blood and saliva flew in ribbons from its elongated canines. Ares calculated Khier’s proximity with the spear before sprinting toward the beast. Farin, if he kept that pace, would reach his mark moments after him. Perfect.

The wolf came for him with the singular purpose of ripping him to shreds. The distance closed between them fast. Ares used his momentum to dodge snapping jaws, sliding beneath the wolf and cutting as he went. It roared, its injured front leg giving out from underneath it, causing it to skid forward on its shoulder.

Ares came out on the other side just as Farin leapt onto the beast’s back. Kheir’s spear hit its mark, driving into its side. At the same time, Farin brought the sword up and down with a flourish, stabbing the wolf between its shoulder blades. Its death howl rang in the space long after.

The crowd erupted in a roar. Farin leapt off, pumping both of his fists into the air. Jogging to meet Kheir, Ares stopped between them and raised their arms for the spectators.

“That is how you fight!” Hermes announced. “And it seems Ares has favored these two fighters!”

He let their arms go and clapped both on the shoulders. They looked at him with wariness and disbelief. Men like them were good in battle and wasted in a place like this. For tonight, they were heroes in the eyes of the crowd. They could choose to be named champions if they wanted and fight another night for whatever Zeus was offering these days. If they were smart, they would take the freedom earned from fighting alongside him and never look back.

The gates opened, and the handlers came to collect the survivors as flowers and favors rained down on them from the stands. Even without seeing them, he knew that bets were being collected and bids for new champions were being negotiated.

Ares found the witch where he had left her. She had collapsed in on herself, becoming a crumpled heap in the sand. Her messy, honey curls covered her face. “Up,” he commanded, and she startled violently but didn’t move to rise. He hauled her up by her biceps instead.

“Looks like Ares, The God of War and Courage, is taking home a prize too!” Hermes’ voice boomed suggestively.

Ares gritted his teeth. So much for going unnoticed. He would kill Hermes for that. She was shaking uncontrollably, and he was the only thing holding her upright as she slumped against his body. Ares dared a look at Zeus, though from where he stood, there was only darkness in the stands. If Zeus chose to pass judgment and have Ares kill her, all of this would have been for nothing.

The crowd was a living thing. Though there were still cheers for the victors, the space filled with a buzzing expectation from the spectators. He knew the assembly too well and what they called for. Either he had to give it to them, or Zeus would.

“Witch,” he addressed her. Her gaze traveled to his face slowly, looking up at him but not quite focusing. He placed his other hand at the nape of her neck, supporting her further. “I’m going to kiss you.” He gestured with a slight tilt of his head to the crowd. “Only briefly, and then I will take you out of this place.”

He gathered her closer still, bringing her body flush against his. Her lips parted, probably in protest, but he swallowed any response she might have formed. He kissed her somewhat modestly, as modestly as he could, while still making a show of it. Her lips were cold and stiff, barely moving against his. His own blood was dried at the corner of her mouth and stained her chin. It was by far the worst thing he had done all night.

“Only The God of War kills seventy-nine fighters and one daemon wolf, and gets to kiss a woman in the same arena,” Hermes announced with an impressed drawl.

Laughter and cheers erupted from the insatiable spectators. Her eyes remained half-closed as he pulled back, her lips still parted. The scraps of her dress were even more precariously placed as she shivered with the creeping cold of shock. Picking her up in one swift motion, he pulled the tatters of her gown over her as he made for the closest gate. She mumbled something and then promptly fainted, her body falling limp in his arms.

Chapter III

Tristacametoslowlyand then all at once. Even so, her eyelids felt entirely too heavy to pry open. When they finally listened to her command, she was not ready for what was before her. The God of War was rummaging around in a drawer, grumbling to himself while completely covered in blood. Her gaze slid from him to take in her surroundings.

They were in an open room, sparsely furnished. It held a sizable bed, a cramped kitchen, and what she guessed was a bathing area as she heard running water coming from beyond a curtain. When she found him again, he was studying her from across the room.

The god approached her hesitantly as if she was an easily spooked animal. All Trista could do was watch him. His very essence screamedpredator. Frighteningly tall, powerful, eerily calm. He seemed wholly unbothered by the amount of red that covered him. His crimson-soaked tunic stuck to the rippling muscles underneath.

No wonder he was The God of War. He wasblessedby blood,madeof battle.

“I found a tunic for you,” he said, handing her a black piece of fabric that was far too large for her. She took it and held it to her chest, realizing she was covered with a blanket. The events at The Arena flashed through her mind, jagged and disjointed, causing her to flinch.

“Where are you hurt?” he asked, his voice a deep rumble.

She felt battered all over. Sharp jolts pulsated from her ribs with every inhale, and her body ached with every slight movement.

Words escaped her, and when all she could do was stare at him, he spoke again. “Can you stand?”

She attempted to, but her side was so sore it stole her breath.

“I’m going to take you to the bath so you can get cleaned up.”

He picked her up swiftly and easily, the blanket dropping with the movement. Between the amount of blood on him and the smell, metallic and heavy, she almost puked. Luckily, she made it to the bath on the other side of the partition without doing so.

The tub was filled and steaming, smelling lightly of a familiar scent—lavender, perhaps. He sat her on the edge of the bathtub, and she grabbed the side with one hand while still holding the tunic to her chest. Jerking the curtain closed, he left without another word.