Page 77 of The Coven of Ruin
It wasn’t that she wanted to die. That had, in fact, been one of the biggest things that The Arena had taken from her—her simple willingness to offer up her life so that someone else may live.
“They’re already dead,” he snapped.
Trista whirled, storming toward the door. He had taken her to his room, not her own. It was bigger than hers and enclosed, with no open wall to the world. He grasped her arm to stop her from leaving, his grip painless but assertive all the same.
Channeling her weary magic into her palm, she turned and slapped his face, deep purple sparks emitting upon impact. Striking him hard enough to turn his cheek, his jaw flexed, and when he looked at her again, his gaze smoldered.
And she wasn’t sure what made her do it. What made her step forward and throw a punch exactly how Zyana had taught her to. But if grief was the ocean, then anger was the salt of it. Her blow landed on his ribs, sharp pain rushing through her knuckles to her wrist, but it didn’t stop her from throwing another one. And another.
He took her strikes. The only emotion on his face was a crease in his brows, as if he was unsure how to handle the situation.
“This is all your fault!” She panted out the accusation, her punches turning into slaps and then shoves. He was unyielding, his arms hanging loosely at his side. Unmovable. “If not for you, none of this would have ever had to happen.”
When her hands were numb from the contact, and all she could do was fist his tunic in her hands, she rested her forehead against his chest, her breathing coming in heaving, ragged drags. “I hate you,” she managed between clenched teeth.
And she did. She hated him for saving her, for coming back. She hated him for what he did to the Mothers. She hated his stupid scowling and how he had used her. Most of all, she hated how solid he was, the way his arms hesitantly wrapped around her, pressing her further against his strong body.
“I’m aware,” was all he said.
“I’m sorry,” she breathed. For hitting him, for hating him, for everything that had led to this point.
His chest rumbled with a hum.
She wasn’t sure how long they stood there like that, but they separated when the door opened behind her.
“They still can’t get us out of here until tomorrow morning,” Grae said without preamble. “Since there is no way to contact Pavon on the other side, that’s the soonest. No one wants to stay in that Tartarus of a chamber either.”
Trista turned to look at Grae. “Can you tell me those who are injured so I can see to them?”
Grae’s slate-colored gaze flicked to her, quickly taking in her appearance. “The dead don’t need seeing to, and the injured aren’t bad off. They’ll recover without you.”
“Are all of you so flippant when it comes to life and death?” Fury rose within her again. “And imagine if I told you, a war god, that there is no point in going on the battlefield to fight.”
Grae shrugged a shoulder thoughtfully. “Well, if they were all dead, I would only wonder why no one had come for me sooner.”
Ares made a noise that she couldn’t tell if it was in warning or amusement.
The bronzed god, scratching the back of his neck, finally said, “I wouldn’t leave you in a room with those who are just injured anyway. We don’t know who to trust. Those shades attacked and killed a lot of witches today, but some were left completely unscathed. Why do you think that is?”
Because they were already supporters of the Legion of the Abyss.
Her determination gave way to defeat. He was right.
Grae inclined his head, motioning to the other god that he wanted to speak with him out of earshot. When they left the room, the silence pressed in on her. She sat on the edge of his bed, scrunching her eyes shut.
All she could see was the last of Eral’s magic, Elder Sarange’s shredded body. Orna warning her not to trust the god before her throat was torn out. The shadow smiling at her, all glistening white teeth, and touching her—its grasp colder than death itself, making her bones ache against the ice.
The enormity of the situation weighed in on her. This group was not just a few radical members—it was half the covens. But Prince Roan had been fighting for his father’s life, right? She conjured the rough image of the prince crying out for a healer—tears and blood streaked on his cheeks while he held him.
Don’t trust the god.
But Trista wasn’t sure who to trust anymore.
Ares stepped back in. Noting she was sitting on the edge of the bed, he seemed to relax. He said nothing to her as he swiped up several logs near the fireplace across from her. Half turned away from her, she took the opportunity to study him like she had all these weeks.
His movements, even in this way, were precise and predatory. The muscles in his back rippled underneath his tunic, and his biceps bulged against the fabric he had folded up as he inspected each log. Crouching, his back bowed out as he worked to start the fire.
Trista hadn’t realized how deep the cold had sunk into her until the warmth from the growing fire reached her. When he was satisfied, he sat in a plain chair in the corner of the room.
