Page 59 of The Coven of Ruin
A hard knocking entered the dream. But it wasn’t until it sounded again that she registered it.
The room came into sharp focus, wrenching her from the realm between sleep and waking. And Ares. She could still feel the ghost of his touch, the trace of his lips against her skin.
Her hand was between her legs, wet with her arousal. It was anguish to pull her fingers away, so great was her need for release. Breath hitching, she sat up. The room swirled and twisted before righting itself again as another knock sounded.
“One minute,” she mumbled. Slipping from the bed, she pulled the tunic back down over herself.
More quick and impatient rapping echoed through her room.
“I’m coming,” she called, only to groan at the choice of words.
How much time had passed? Apprehension didn’t have time to suggest she not answer. Careful to keep her bruised cheek hidden, she cracked the door open. Only to find The God of War himself standing there. It was as if she had performed a ritual with only the moon as her witness and bewitched him there.
Blinking, she managed, “It’s late.”
“And you are late,” he replied simply.
“It’sverylate. I’m tired.”
“You didn’t show. I waited.”
“I lost track of time in the library,” she breathed, heart thundering.
His gaze dipped to her lips, and she remembered belatedly that it also showed evidence of her encounter with Illean.
Curses.
“Witch,” his voice rumbled through her jagged thoughts.
When she only stared at him, her lips parted, he stepped forward.
It took little effort for him to open the door wide. If Trista had been of a better mind, she would have maybe cursed him or shooed him back out. Backing up instead, she put distance between them, hoping that if she stayed far enough away, he wouldn’t notice the bruise on her cheek. Closing the door behind him, his gaze took in the room. It flicked from the balled-up dress to the bed, the bathing room doorway, and then back to her.
He did a slow survey of her from head to toe. If he recognized his tunic, he gave no indication of it. Instead, he stepped toward her.
And she stepped back. “Don’t,” she gasped out, raising her hand.
Ares halted. He searched her for the meaning of her command. But resolve hardened his features, and by the time he stepped into her, she was out of steps, her back pressed against the wall.
She held her breath and winced as he brought his hand to her chin. The movement made him hesitate. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he said huskily, an almost plea in his tone for her to believe him.
He turned her face toward the dim light. His thumb ran softly over her swollen top lip, feather-light. But it was his voice that held the violence. “Who thefuckdid this to you?”
She felt wild and knew her appearance reflected that. With her hair completely free of any ribbons or pins, her curls splayed out everywhere. Her face was bruised, eyes red-rimmed. And though he couldn’t see it, the slick heat between her legs made her feel the wildest. Squeezing her thighs together, she tried not to focus on his touch.
Guiding her chin back to face him, his fingers danced down along her neck to the collar of the oversized tunic. It was the same path his lips had traveled in another realm. “Where else are you hurt?”
“It’s nothing,” she said breathily. Heat still burned low in her core with need as she watched him.
An irritated noise reverberated through his chest. But he was already lifting one of her arms for his inspection. He bunched the sleeve’s fabric up, causing her to wince as he revealed the black and blue flesh. She looked at her own arm and then quickly back up at Ares, his head bent still.
“Who?”
She shook her head.
“Tell me,” he growled out. He carefully smoothed the tunic’s sleeve over Trista’s arm—the action at odds with his fury.
She cleared her throat, breathing in deeply, but all she could smell was him. All she could think about was him.Why was it always him?
