6
He’s jesting. Yet this human may be right. Damnation, she doesn’t want to leave. No, she wants to stay and do more of this talking—this simple, meandering act that leads to nowhere yet turns this spot into everywhere .
Also, she wants to officially defeat him in this match. Instead, it’s another draw.
If only reality were so merciful.
Thirty minutes later, they stall at the edge of the woods, bookended by trees on one side, the village’s park on the other.
“Well, that wasn’t so bad,” he concludes. “We survived without bloodshed, and you didn’t complain once about tying with me on that last round.”
“That’s because I was in a generous mood,” Love quips.
“How long does that generous mood usually last?”
He’s doing that mutinous thing again. Teasing her. Tempting her. This mortal is skilled in that regard.
She feels robbed, cheated, and newly afraid. What is she going to do about this viral human who’s killing her? She has no right to savor his company.
Andrew glances at the woods, his jaw tensing. “I’m not okay with leaving you to the wolves.”
Love points in the direction they came from, the world of mortal women with mortal names. “Is it any safer in your territory?”
“Depends. But having someone close is better. You don’t agree?”
“I don’t know,” she says. “Why are you asking that?”
“Because I want to see you again.”
Fuck her hard. This is why she should have kept their evening short, as they’d agreed to. Yet getting carried away for a handful of hours hadn’t been enough to evict the novelty of her out of his system. Nor had it been sufficient to purge him from her own.
She tenses. “It would be jeopardous to make a habit of this.”
“Again, a reference to danger,” Andrew observes like it’s an aphrodisiac. “Well, if you change your mind, find me or send a signal. I’ll come for you.”
As his eyes glint with certainty, her inner wings flutter like a pair of traitors. She ignores the sensation and inclines her head. “Thank you for tonight.”
“I’d do it again.”
As would I. If you weren’t a deadly creature.
They still haven’t washed their hands of the blood from the park battle. While fixating on her, Andrew glides a crimson finger down the edge of her longbow. The touch sends a tremble through Love, as though the contact is palpable.
Anarchy ensues. Reaching out, the mortal pretends to cup her cheek, his fingers hovering at the place where his skin fails to meet hers. His thumb sweeps back and forth, attempting to breach the divide, to collapse this barrier.
“You’re like steam,” he murmurs. “Tell me you don’t feel this.”
Love shakes her head, her voice thinning to a whisper. “I don’t.”
Not true. This illusion of a touch plies her with goosebumps and reaches the crux of her thighs, tension building within the seam of her cunt. Love fights the inclination to squirm, to relieve the ache.
Worse, the affectionate gesture lays siege to her soul and afflicts a deeper, fragile part of her being. Love’s wings vibrate beneath her shoulder blades, itching to rip free and spread wide.
Like a felon, his mutinous thumb slides over the mist of her lips. “And that?” he rasps.
“No,” she utters.
A pair of hooded eyes drag to hers. “I could make you feel it.”
It takes a while to resist that invitation. This mortal confirms she’s not mistaken, that human touch holds infinite possibilities. Or it could be the siren’s call of mortals, and Love’s falling for it because she’s the poorest excuse for a goddess that has ever existed.
With another lingering look at Love, the mortal releases her cheek and strikes back through the woods. Her fingers lift to the place where he’d tried to touch her, then bend into a fist. It makes no sense, yet she pursues him as if it’s the gallant thing to do. Or the greedy thing. At one point, he turns his head over his shoulder, and she jumps out of sight.
After a few more leagues, he peeks back at her a second time. She ducks, then catches a roguish grin slanting across his lips. If they were the same type of being, she wagers they’d do this often, banter as they had tonight. Although Love has spent the evening with a man who’s slowly destroying her, it’s been the most captivating night she’s ever had.
Letting him go, Love stashes herself behind a cluster of brambles. However, her mischievous grin drops into a frown as he reaches the park’s edge, and Holly comes charging in his direction.
“Andrew,” the woman snaps, shoving his shoulders the instant she gains his side.
This fails to have the desired effect, for Andrew’s frame is too solid to throw off balance. As his demeanor changes from diverted to reserved, he glances toward the female’s fingers, then clicks his eyes to her. “Holly.”
Nothing else. Not that he’s afforded the opportunity to say more. Instead, Holly rushes into a speech.
“Assholes,” she berates. “The both of you! Nothing but a bunch of assholes throwing your weight around! Griffin was supposed to come over to my house tonight, but he never showed up, so I left him a message, and then it took him hours to call me back, saying he had to go to the emergency room, but he wouldn’t tell me what happened. I had to pry the truth from him.”
Andrew’s eyebrows furrow, his tone becoming guarded. “And what’s the truth?”
“Not the same story he’s going to tell the whole town. I know what he’ll say just to save face, though I’ve convinced him the part about flying objects is clearly an illusion from trading punches. Anyway, I just got out of the hospital. Believe me, I’m not happy with either of you shitheads, but I also wasn’t sure if you were still out here,” she says. “A friend borrowed my car, so I ran here to see if you were okay, and—anyway, never mind. I’m tempted to slap you, but at least you’re in one piece.”
Indeed. Between Love and Andrew’s combined retaliation, Griffin and his troll sidekick are suffering worse.
“A slap would be fair,” Andrew concedes. “Listen, I’m sor—”
“I appreciate that,” Holly sighs. “It hardly excuses what you did to each other, but my ankle wasn’t that bad, and I didn’t say you ‘rammed into me’ today. I swear, Griffin doesn’t drink often, but when he does—oh shit, your face.” She runs her fingers over the wound, the contact making Andrew flinch.
An emotional landslide pours through Love. She growls, then whimpers when the mortals’ hearts ignite like a pair of crystal flames. Andrew and Holly cannot see it, but Love can. She’s never beheld such a marvel before, for this is different from the breach of her arrows, which rupture hearts on impact. Yet she understands the signal.
Her head pitches toward the sky. As the two hearts on earth kindle, two stars flicker above.
Do you have a thing for the stars?
When Andrew had asked her that question in the archery range, she’d longed to be honest with him. In any realm, The Stars are many things: birth vessels of immortals, keepers of wishes, and tellers of fortunes, prophecies, and truths. Additionally, they’re messengers, funnels that deities use to contact each other. Whatever the message’s content, it is sensed by the recipient.
This missive has come from The Fate Court. And it’s a command.
The freedom to decide her matches is a pleasure. Not once has The Court, who trusts her judgment, demanded a specific pairing from Love. Yet it’s the rulers’ right to do so.
Besides Andrew’s death, there is another way to save everyone. It will protect her kind and spare him. This is the answer. This is what Love would want. She should be relieved.
Andrew and Holly. Fated mates. Her next match.
“No,” Love whispers.