Page 58 of The Coven of Ruin
Trista ran. All the way back to her room, she ran, not even bothering to stop for a guard who asked her what was wrong. Once in the safety of her space, she dared to look at the damage he had wrought. Her moss-brown eyes were wide, brimmed with unshed tears. A sickly purple and black bruise spread across her cheek, and her lip was torn. Though tender, her nose had not been broken but bled freely.
Powerless.That is how she felt as she wetted a cloth and brought it up to clean her face.Powerless.The word sank like a weight into her core, creeping out in a consuming ache. The tears crested and fell as she dabbed at the mess of red. Taking shallow breaths through her mouth, she tried not to taste her blood lest it push her into full-blown panic.
Rinse, dab, rinse, dab.
When finally it was just the bruise and her cut lip as evidence of the event, she recoiled at the smattering of red that stained the front of her dress. She tugged at the ties and layers until it loosened. Carefully, she pushed the dress down past her hips, her injured arm objecting as pain shot from her shoulder. Not able to stand the sight of her blood anymore, she kicked it aside, the layers becoming a crumpled mass. All that was left as evidence were the black marks on her forearms in the shape of Illean’s hands.
Powerless.
She moved around her chamber as if a ghost. Searching for a slip in her drawer, her fingers brushed over a rougher cloth. She pulled the item out instead, looking it over. Ares’ tunic. Bringing it up to her nose, she inhaled deeply. It smelled like oak from the drawer, her own scent, and ever so faintly—him. She considered it and then pulled it on over her head.
Padding to the trunk at the end of her bed, she opened it to retrieve her bag of medicinal supplies. She knew the bag’s contents on feel alone, her fingers closing around a thin vial of clear liquid. A pain tonic. She quickly uncapped and downed it before she could think better of it.
Made with essence from the Roshe plant, its side effects included waking drowsiness, sensitivity to sound, and a loss of inhibition. However, its purpose was to ease pain and augment a witch’s natural healing magic. It would, hopefully, lighten the bruise and heal the cut on her lip over the next twelve hours. She would just have to miss breakfast, but that was better than trying to hide from Demurielle and Zyana for several days—an impossible feat.
The tincture seized her senses even before she had brought the blanket over herself in her bed. The moon bathed the room in a silver light, and her mind drifted within its beams. It turned Illean’s demands over until, finding that she was no closer to a solution that wouldn’t alert Ares and keep her friends safe, it moved that concern aside. It flickered through dark cells with feral mages who forgot their names, champions in an arena where everyone loses in some way, and even went to Kace.
Eventually, leaving darker thoughts behind, it glided to her friends. She wondered if Dem was genuinely clueless about Zyana’s desires and held none of her own. Zyana was respectful, never crossing the boundary of friendship, and Trista knew she would still be deeply content with just that bond. She imagined Dem didn’t even consider it, despite what she felt, for no other reason than that was not what she was raised for. She was made for alliances and mage lords. It probably never even occurred to her to allow herself to love anyone that didn’t meet her strict requirements as a mage. Even though, curiously enough, Zyana met every other criterion.
“He must know how to dance or at least be willing to learn. He needs to be able to handle a sword and defend what is his. Good humored, of course, and must cater to my interests. Maybe even let me dress him up and wear matching outfits with me. And he has to be fiercely loyal and feel honored by the mere fact he is allowed in my presence. Is that too much to ask for?”
The blonde witch had just taken another mage off her list because she witnessed him ogling the witch from The Coven of Sea, who wore the most scandalous attire. Trista smiled at the memory, her cheek throbbing with the motion.
Trista had never thought about what she would look for in a partner because, outside of Kace, the possibility had never occurred to her. The covenless were rarely permitted to wed, and at the Akeso, it was all but taboo to court. An early death was their only future.
If she had to imagine herself with someone, though, they would be gentle and kind. Maybe they’d enjoy reading books to her and discussing the subjects they researched. And they would trulyseeher.
Or would they have golden irises and make you blush,her heart nudged, interrupting her thoughts. And because her mind was drifting, it indulged her. He arose, dauntless and sturdy, fierce and impenetrable in her mind’s eye. Muscled, scarred. And powerful.
And the Witchbane,some reasonable part of her mentioned. She brushed it aside.He doesn’t care about your life,it insisted.
But here, in the safety of sheets and a hazed state, she pretended. Conjuring up pieces of memories, she recast them anew. His lips almost brushed against hers, his fingertips dancing across her cheek.“I’m going to kiss you…”
She imagined his lips on hers, his arms around her, pulling her against his hard body. Would he be gentle? Or would he approach it in the same way he approached war—with swift and utter destruction? Would he undress her in an agonizingly slow manner, or would he rip the fabric off her as if her flesh was the only thing he needed to survive?
But she knew the truth. Ares would devour her, undo her,ruinher.
The tonic-induced version of him solidified more—tunicless and unmarked by death. Positioned over her body, his molten gaze traveled over her, but he didn’t touch her. Lowering his head to her neck, his breath hot against her skin, he whispered, “Do you want my hands on you?”
A whimper escaped her lips, her hips rising as if she could close the distance between their bodies.
“Say the words,” came his husky command.
“Please touch me,” she pleaded.
A growling hum of approval left him. “Such a good witch,” he praised. He brushed his calloused hand up her thigh, pulling the tunic with it over her hips and stomach. She was entirely exposed to him, his fist holding the fabric above her breasts. Leaving a path of hot kisses from her neck to her collarbone, he lowered himself over her further. He was all fire and passion, conqueror and god.
And ceaseless in his exploration of her.
Ares’ length pressed against her center, separated only by his pants. She needed the material to vanish. She neededeverybarrier between them gone. Ready to voice just that, he moved further down her body instead, leaving her desperate and aching. “Ares,” she protested in a breathy plea. But his satisfied rumble against her exposed flesh stole any other words she had meant to speak.
In the same way he had marked her, his fingers settled over her ribs, his thumb just under her breast. “I intend to fuck you”—he flicked his tongue across her nipple, drawing a sharp breath from her—“until my name is the only thing you know how to say.” His voice held an oath that she would not see him break. “Is that what you want?”
“Yes.”
“Do you want my fingers here?” Ares questioned against her stomach as he trailed light touches over her hip. “Or here?” He grabbed her thigh.
Humming low in his throat, his fingers moved up her inner thigh until—
