Page 52 of A Reign of Storm and Madness

“She’s been sending him love letters for a while. Theos wanted to burn them without opening them, but I kept a few of the more threatening ones on the off chance she actually went through with some of her promises.”

Of course he kept them. Ruen is calculating and the letters would be evidence for him.

“I see.” I deadpan. It doesn’t make me feel any better to know that I’m not the only woman to have fallen for Theos. In fact, I was the reason we’d slept together in the first place. I’d felt sorry for the bastard. Now, I just want to shove his dick so far up his own ass that he tastes his own cum.

When Ruen doesn’t say anything more, I give him a small nod. “Thank you for letting me know.” I pivot back to the stairs.

“I meant what I said, Kiera,” I hear him say at my back, voice hard. I take the first step down and the second. “If you run, I will find you,” he continues.

I pause on the third step and look over my shoulder. “I’m not running,” I tell him, making my new decision in a heartbeat. “You still owe me a favor, remember?” I just want to be away from the north tower and away from Theos when he returns. “I’m not leaving or running anywhere until I can collect.”

Ruen’s glittering eyes watch me with that ever-present wariness, but I don’t say anything more and neither does he as I face forward and descend the steps, moving past my room until my feet carry me all the way to the end and then out the door and into fresh, cold air.

Chapter 29

Kiera

Rahela’s death is taken in stride by the other Mortal Gods of the Academy. It makes me wonder if the girl ever had any actual friends.

I stare across the training grounds, the arena, as Theos takes a sword to the arm—the blade slicing clean over his bicep as blood dribbles from the wound. Perhaps it’s dealing with Ophelia’s training, but walking into the arena after my experiences is far easier than I’d expected. Despite the fact that I haven’t spoken to Theos in days—not since I snuck out of his bedroom—even he had looked me over, likely for signs of distress, as we’d entered. I’d kept my face unmoved, my attention straightforward. Even if being in the arena did disturb me, I don’t want to disrupt the invisible line we’ve drawn, though I’m not so foolish as to think he’s dropped the matter for now. He knows that I’m hiding something and likely suspects that Kalix knows. Theos hadn’t said a word, not even to ask me how I’d managed to break out of his room. I assume it’s because he must think Ruen released me.

I don’t care. I’ve made enough mistakes with Theos. There are far bigger and deadlier problems that lay in front of me.

As that thought runs through my mind, I swap my stare to the being of that bigger and deadlier problem. Kalix grins widely, his intense eyes narrowing and his pupils sliding into thin slits, as his opponent trembles before him.

The poor Mortal God that has unluckily drawn the short straw of sparring with him during training is a rather buff looking male with a shorn head and an aristocratic nose that seems to dominate his face beneath his too closely set eyes. He’s not as beautiful as most Mortal Gods, so I assume he must be a Third tier—someone with more mortal blood than Divine.

Kalix has, like most of the males that have separated from the rest of the group with their sparring partners, removed his shirt for battle and circles his opponent like a predator with a helpless victim. He’s enjoying frightening the male too much and with as excessively aware of the eyes in the arena as I am, I resist the urge to roll mine as he fake dives for the other male, nearly making his opponent scamper back and fall on his ass.

I turn my gaze to the final Darkhaven. Ruen stands still in the invisible ring of his own sparring area, his eyes flitting side to side as his opponent makes a zigzagging motion, cutting through the ground as he approaches. One moment Ruen is there and the next—as his assailant leaps, sword overhead—he’s gone. The opponent then cries out and falls, face down into the dirt. There’s no spray of blood, but he doesn’t get back up as Ruen appears right over him, looking at the flat side of his sword before lifting his gaze from the metal and meeting mine.

It’s been well over a week now since eliciting my favor from him, but I’ve still yet to receive word from Regis to let me know he’s back in Riviere. My experience tells me it’s normal to go several weeks, not just several days without hearing from him, especially when he’s on a job. My mind, however, settles on the fact that he’d given his own mission an end date and that end date has come and gone.

This is why we don’t give end dates to missions. It’s almost like a jinx. He had to have thought it would be easy, and now is finding that it’s not. Regis is talented, I remind myself. He was raised just like me, and in a lot of ways, he’s a far superior assassin than I am. If it weren’t for his aversion to filth and grime, he’d likely be ahead of me in terms of Ophelia’s best killers. My only claim to fame is the fact that my Divine blood gives me better senses and certain abilities.

A feminine curse startles me from my reverie as a familiar body strides past me. She turns, letting her back hit the wall first as she tosses her blade into the sand at our feet and slides down to sit on her ass, knees folded up.

Maeryn’s fiery red hair is pulled back into a series of intricate braids—some beaded and some free of adornment—on the top of her head as one long thick rope of hair hangs down her back. She’s flushed from head to toe, her normally pale freckled skin pink due to the sun that has decided to come out from behind the wintry clouds. It no longer feels like winter is hovering overhead, but that spring might be on its way. I’ve been here for nearly a full semester when I wasn’t even sure I’d make it past a few weeks. I surprise even myself sometimes.

“This is ridiculous,” Maeryn mutters as she stares out over the arena, watching her classmates go at each other with dagger, sword, and fist.

Across the way, I spot Niall hurrying toward a large water barrel, set up for the Mortal Gods, no doubt, because the Gods often forget that Terra have needs as well. He waits in line to gather a mug of the water most likely to bring it to her.

I glance down again. What is she doing sitting over here?

“Do you know how many Mortal Gods die in those battles?” She snaps the question out so fast, I’m not sure if she’s just talking because she’s frustrated or if it’s because she wants someone to listen. I keep my mouth shut, not saying a word.

Maeryn tips her head back and looks at me pointedly. “Well?” she prompts.

Fuck, she does want a response. I offer her a shrug. “No, I don’t,” I admit.

“Most of them,” she tells me, looking back to the arena. “More survived these past battles because Maladesia had been selected as the original reigning judge.” She flinches. “It’s rare for that many to survive and advance.”

“Have you battled before?” I ask before I can think better of it.

Her head slumps back against the stone wall and she blows out a breath. “Once,” she confesses, eyes growing distant. “And it’s something I’d rather not repeat. It took weeks for me to heal and I barely made it out with my life … much less the nightmares.”

The last part of her admission slips out quieter than the rest. Nightmares, I think. Something we share.

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