Page 7 of The Coven of Ruin
She was as alone as she was going to get.
Removing her dress, torn as it was, and lowering herself into the basin was a struggle. The reward of the hot bath was worth it, though. She scrubbed every inch of her body slowly while gingerly minding the blue and black that blossomed across her ribs. Somehow,the tub was magically able to fill while simultaneously draining out the dirty water. It was a small blessing, as she wasn’t forced to sit in rust-colored water for long.
She stayed in the water long after it ran clear, and the pads of her fingers shriveled.
All she could remember of the last several days were fragmented pieces of violence. When it became apparent that the hot water wouldn’t clear her head, she stood up. Though battered and bruised, the heat helped enough that she could at least do that. Trista dried off and pulled the tunic over her head. It was far too large, falling just above her knees. Yet she was thankful for warm, clean clothes that were not shredded into tatters and covered in blood.
Small mercy.
When she limped out, the war god was leaning against the far wall flexing a hand. Gods healed quickly, but she spied her bite mark on his arm, torn and unhealed. Heat bloomed in her cheeks. She tried to give herself some grace, though—hehadtaken an inordinate amount of time to tell her he wasn’t planning on killing her.
He stared at her, his dark gold eyes unsettling as he took her in. Pushing off the wall, he grabbed his change of clothes and his sheathed blade, and walked past her to the bathing area.
While he was out of sight, she took the opportunity to look around the room. There was barely anything in the drawers besides some medical supplies, clothes, and a pile of blankets. No weapons, she noted, not even a butter knife. Clearly, it wasn’t a permanent residence. Finding nothing of interest, she tucked herself into the same corner and slid down the wall to wait. The thought of escape was curtailed by her fear of ending up back in The Arena. At least here, she wasn’t in total darkness. At least here, there was some semblance of safety.
He came out sometime later, clothes clean and hair damp, strands of it sticking to his forehead. His cheeks were slightly pink from the heat of the water. He looked less like The God of War and more like a tired man. She tracked him as he moved around the tiny room. Finally, he picked up a folded blanket and turned toward her.
“What—” she tried.
He responded with an arched brow.
“Why did you save me?”
The God of War paused. His tone flat, he asked, “Do you need a reason?”
She supposed she didn’t, unless he wanted something in return. The thought made her stomach churn. Before the idea could fester into true panic, he said, “You can have the bed, witch.”
Surprise and apprehension had her standing back up slowly. “Are you certain you don’t want it,errr… God of War,” she exhaled lamely. Trista thought she saw him still for a moment, but then he spread his blanket out on the floor where she would be able to see him from the bed.
“Ares,” he corrected simply as he lowered himself to sit on the spread-out blanket, ignoring her question. “Where do you hail from?”
“The Southern Akeso.”
He grunted. “I can’t take you back now because I don’t have my god powers. But I’ll gate you back as soon as I have them or someone else comes by.” He laid down on the blanket, folding his hands behind his head.
“Gate me?” Trista asked as she pulled back the bed’s covers and crawled into it, minding her bruises.
“Transport you. In the same manner that brought you to Olympus.”
She remembered the dizzying feel of moving through a maelstrom when her captor had taken her to The Arena.
“How did you get caught?” he asked, his voice low.
She brought the bedcovers up over herself—they were deliciously warm and soft—and then glanced at him again. “I was in possession of a stolen necklace.”
He gave her a dubious look as if that couldn’t be the whole tale.
“I wasn’t the one who stole it.” Her voice got higher pitched.
Turning to stare at the ceiling again, he asked, “Then why were you the one who was taken for it?”
“Because I was wearing it, and my friend who stole it just…” Trista took a deep breath, steadying herself. The thought held the potential to hurt far more than anything else she had experienced that night. “They didn’t do anything to save me when the god came to get it back.”
“Doesn’t sound like a good friend.”
Her first instinct was to defend him, but she let the momentary indignation fizzle out. Silence filled the space between them, and she noted that his eyes were closed now. “Ares?”
“Hm?” The sound was throaty.
