21
Of all places, he stands outside a clothing shop window, scanning the garments inside. This mortal is looking too sinful for his own good, a navy sweater accentuating the bulk of his shoulders. With more time at her disposal, Love might grow obsessed with those muscles, now that she has seen them bare while he slept, among other indiscretions she’d committed.
Nearby, two of her former matches nuzzle each other against a light post, the male as slim as a broomstick and the female sporting ombre-dyed hair. That’s how it could be for Love and Andrew. She could be a real woman sidling up to him, doing something flirtatious to get his attention. Instead, she pretends by fixing her hair as she heads his way.
At the last minute, eagerness gets the better of Love. She halts at his back, rises on her toes, and peeks over his shoulder, her reflection in the shop window catching him off guard.
“Christ,” he hisses, whipping around, his back hitting the glass panel.
People slow their pace, tossing him glances as they pass. Love should have announced herself first, for she hadn’t meant to startle him. Despite her invisibility, she feels the sharp thrust of the crowd’s attention upon Andrew. Even more potent, the battlefield of conflicted emotions—desire, disillusionment, devotion—waging a war across his face as he stares at her.
At Love. No one else.
He cares that she cares. She cares that he wants her to care, but he probably doesn’t want her to know he cares, because he’ll think she only cares because he wants her to, and then he’ll be vexed, which doesn’t make sense because if she’s doing what he wants there shouldn’t be a problem. Then she’ll be vexed because he should know she wouldn’t fake caring for him, but anyway showing that she cares is as consequential a move as showing that she doesn’t care, because either way he’ll care even more, and that will make her care even more, and she’s not sure what any of this means because she’s lost track of her thoughts, which is infuriating, and once she gets riled up, it’s only a matter of time before he gets riled up.
Sigh.
“Hello,” she says ruefully.
“Love,” he intones without a shred of hesitation, speaking aloud regardless of his exposure on the street.
Remorse must show like a beacon across her face. Andrew’s irises thaw even further, and he opens his mouth, then rethinks whatever he’d been about to say. His nostrils flare, the impulse to distrust or defend her, to snarl at Love or slam his mouth against hers, evident in his countenance.
Like some form of survival instinct or self-preservation, he regards her in dubious silence. Love has a problem with that. In fact, she would need a Greek chorus to fully express what this does to her.
“Perhaps I should find a way to mark you, human,” she jests. “Then you’ll be forced to engage with me.”
Andrew’s pupils devour her whole. “You’ve made lots of marks on me. You just don’t see them.” Before she can appreciate the husky sentiment, much less atone for it, he murmurs, “What do you want from me, goddess?”
Goddess. Not Little Myth.
Love takes the question more personally than she ought to. “Last night, you were a guest in my home and broke my cup.”
It’s not the answer he wants. His face breaks apart, his expectations reduced to rubble. “And you broke me in half. The gods you raise hell with would probably say that makes us equal.”
An apology balances on the tip of her tongue. “My world has a destiny as much as yours does. This is what I was born and bred to do.”
“You’re saying it’s impossible to break the mold. Love, you could smash through any barrier with your bare fists. You aren’t shackled to your fate.”
“Without my bow and my power, I have nothing. What purpose do I serve?”
“Mind-fuckery aside, you could serve any purpose. You’re fierce, clever, boundless, resourceful,” he growls. “You can do better than this. You are better than this.”
“Fates, keep your voice down. I’m right here .”
“Then make a choice!” He flings out his arms. “Make a choice to be here !”
The bustling street goes silent. Passersby have stopped to gawk, unsure whether to record the spectacle on their phones or put a hockey rink’s worth of space between the village’s resident author and themselves.
Love has the power to ascend cliffs, outrun motorcycles, and dance amid earthquakes. Her senses have access to the innermost feelings of others. She’s brandished her weapon, bound into the air, and struck a person down before her feet hit the pavement. She has loosed several arrows at once and hit her targets simultaneously, and she has taken shots in pitch darkness from a hundred leagues. Her eyesight and aim are flawless.
She is supposed to be incomparable. This crowd has nothing on her.
Yet she’s cognizant of their judgment. Though, not for herself. No, she worries about Andrew. She has just embarrassed him, exposed this man to ridicule, and it hurts because this isn’t her world, so he must take the brunt alone. She wants to rescue him from their prying glances but cannot.
However, Andrew shifts in front of Love as if to block her from their scrutiny. Never mind that they cannot see her. His movement is instinctive, and it endears Love to him as much as it pains her.
“Andrew! There you are!” Holly chirps, waltzing toward him with her halo of gilded hair and waving as if they’d planned on meeting in this spot.
It works. Her approach breaks up the scene, and the witnesses disband, scattering to different businesses throughout Evershire’s main square.
Andrew pays the woman zero attention. Instead, he twists gaze to Love as though nobody else exists. The longer they stare, the more his features pull taut, imploring her. “You’re capable of more than you know. But no matter what, I’m still your ally,” he murmurs under his breath. “If you want me, I’m here. I’m yours.”
Love has given Andrew sound reasons not to trust her. Yet here he stands, urgent to hear her side, to align himself with her unconditionally. Despite believing she can rise above her fate, he wants to understand, to know why she targets unsuspecting victims, unconcerned with them after her duties are performed.
Except the things he said moments ago throws each of her justifications into disarray.
You are better than this.
You’re capable of more than you know.
Make a choice to be here.
If you want me…
I’m yours.
Better than this. Capable of more.
Make a choice to spare his kind. Andrew isn’t asking Love to forsake her own world, but to free his. To empathize with them. To grant humans full autonomy.
Yet regardless, Andrew is hers. If she wants him.
Every declaration tramples Love’s defenses. It’s futile to argue her position when, at this point, she’s unsure whether she accepts it herself. This morning, Love had intended to make amends. She’d promised the matriarch she would do right by this mortal, however both attempts have failed.
At least this opportunity with Holly shall fix the latter, help him to bond with the female. What Love wants for herself hardly matters, nor does the pang it causes. And because Andrew shows no sign of moving—no intention of leaving Love behind—she must be brutal.
She assumes the posture of a deity. Older. Wiser. Superior. This, when she feels anything but.
“No,” she replies, feigning indifference. “It’s clear now, this fellowship between us—or whatever you’d like to call it—isn’t going to work. I don’t want your ideals, your alliance, or any bonding connection to this world. I advise you to get used to it.”
Andrew’s features splinter apart. “And the last part?”
If you want me…
I’m yours.
A fragile confession surges from the tips of Love’s being and pushes against her lips, begging to be set loose. Against every instinct thrashing inside her, Love keeps silent, shoving those requited feelings into the pit of her throat.
Andrew’s expression withers. Those wonderful shoulders stiffen, and any hope of keeping his favor dies. Yet he still doesn’t move, doesn’t turn away from her.
Not until Love juts her chin toward a spot behind him. “You must acknowledge her.”
“How am I supposed to do that when you’re all I fucking see?” he admits in a strained voice. “When you’re near me, the world could burn, and I wouldn’t notice.”
Love stuffs her heart into a steel box, locks it shut, and throws away the key. “Then I’ll help you.”
With that, she evanesces. Andrew hisses and lurches forward a step. Halting, he scans the sidewalk with desperate eyes, irises darkening when she refuses to show herself. Yet again, Love has proven herself duplicitous.
From behind a hedge, she watches him. Vanishing and traveling across distances within seconds is a magic power Love rarely exercises. She has always preferred to move slower, on her own two feet. However, it’s necessary at this juncture.
Even then, Andrew searches for Love while beautiful Holly gains his side. “Andrew?”
“Holly. Hey,” he says without looking her way, his voice brittle from the argument and Love’s subsequent exit stunt.
“Hey back,” Holly says with forced cheer. “I wanted to thank you. I liked the book you dropped off the other day.”
It takes him a moment to recall. “Oh. Right. I’m glad.”
This is good. This is good. This is good.
Love repeats the forsaken mantra in her head. This is fucking good.
Except Andrew makes no other reply. Instead, he continues hunting for Love, scoping out every corner of the area. Agitated, Love purses her lips. This man is only ever communicative with her, and their argument has made him even less responsive to the female.
Holly loiters, playing with the zipper of her jacket. “Okay well. I’m hosting a little soiree tonight at my place. Music, cocktails, that sort of thing. Mostly neighbors and friends.”
Love scoffs. Andrew isn’t the type to attend revels. But again, this is good.
When he finally turns her way, but doesn’t immediately accept the invitation, the woman hastens to add, “It’s fine if you have plans, though.”
Realization dawns, and Andrew sighs. “Look, I appreciate it, but you don’t have to do this.”
The comment pricks at Love. He thinks Holly’s inviting him out of pity for the scene he just caused.
Holly realizes it too and backpedals. “No. No, I… I honestly don’t get why people were staring at you. I talk to myself all the time,” she offers lamely. “I’m inviting you because you’re a neighbor, and I think we need a truce. Besides, Griffin’s been wonderful lately. Maybe being around each other more often will smooth things over.”
Andrew is momentarily startled. To Love’s relief and misery, his words take on a thoughtful lilt. “I’ll… try to make it.”
Holly grins. “Perfect.”
Andrew’s mouth tips upward into a polite smile, which doesn’t reach his eyes. Then he glances toward the spot where Love had been standing. He seeks her out, that fractured expression deepening when she doesn’t reappear.