22
That night, Love weaves through the mingling bodies at Holly’s townhouse, making sure to avoid Andrew but keeping close enough to do her job. Her heart twists watching him progress from room to room and get ambushed every few steps by a reveler eager to introduce themself, soak up his proximity, and probe him with personal questions.
Why do they rarely see him in the village? What really happened with Griffin in the park? Is Andrew here with anyone?
Music thumps from the speakers. Mouths sip from wine glasses. Voices chat about nonsense.
As Andrew weaves toward the back porch, many look at him with inquisitiveness and a thirst for gossip. Even more salivate over his chiseled profile, their eyes following, admiring. News of the battle with Griffin should repel them, but such a spectacle only adds to Andrew’s appeal.
Possessiveness itches across Love’s fingers. To snap Andrew’s budding fan club out of their trance, she slaps the bottoms of their cups, popping them one-by-one into the air and splattering their clothes.
Amid their baffled shrieks, Andrew disappears outside, forgotten at last. She lets him go and trails the sound of Griffin and Holly upstairs. Her bedroom door is closed, but they don’t notice the door swinging wider as Love steps inside. For they’re busy.
Against the closet door, Holly giggles while her hulking lover multitasks, nibbling her neck and stroking locks of her hair. He used to try too hard and too much, but he’s different now. He’s confident and carefree. Yet he could have learned on his own how to be a proper lover. With time, and without the orchestration of an arrow, he might have curbed whatever demons linger inside him, making room for Holly’s own flaws to peek through, for both to learn from one another. An imperfect but authentic courtship, belonging to them and no one else.
Love thinks of Andrew alone outside, going home to a relative who only appreciates him as a result of manipulation. Her selfless mortal wants someone to want him as he truly is. From the bottom of her black soul, Love wishes he could have that. Yet at least when it’s over, when he’s bound to Holly, he won’t know the difference.
Swallowing her remorse, Love chooses a lust arrow and shoots Griffin, giving his passion a temporary jolt, sufficient to make him overeager. Not forceful but just enough to get Holly mad. His frame shudders from the impact, and then he swoops in, urging her backward onto the mattress, covering her body with his weight.
Holly squeaks before he licks his way into her mouth. She clings to his arms and wrenches him back. “Slow down.”
“I want you so much,” he pants, pawing at her breasts.
“Wait,” she says, more insistent. “Wait a minute.”
In the doorway, Love squeezes her eyes shut. This male was vile to Andrew, and he’d once been the jealous type, but he treasures his mate. With or without Anger’s arrow, Griffin would not pressure Holly like this.
And Andrew would never want Love to exploit them. He’d detest her for it.
Love doesn’t wish to control them either. Griffin won’t get violent, because the shot hadn’t been that strong, because she would never give anyone a shot that strong. And even if some malevolent twist of nature intervenes, if things unexpectedly get out of hand, she will stop it by whatever means necessary, even if she must crack his skull open.
It’s no consolation, for she has made these humans into puppets. She’s disgusting, a tyrant, and a plague on this world.
I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.
Griffin buries his head in Holly’s shoulder. His mouth worships her, clamping onto her flesh like a vacuum, and her hair gets tangled up in the roughness of his hands.
Holly squirms. “You’re too heavy.”
“You feel so good.”
“This is crazy,” she protests. “There are people here.”
“No one’s going to walk in.”
“Fucking hell, Griffin!”
Love’s libido boost means he’ll be like this for a good five seconds. If she wants to stop him before then, without causing physical harm, there’s only one way. With a growl, she whips out an arrow—one that will dilute his lust even faster—and aims.
Too late. Holly shoves him back, throwing his bulk off the bed. Hollering in pain, he hits the floor with a seismic thud, his knees still wrapped in medical braces from the park battle.
“What the fuck,” he snarls, stumbling to his feet. “What’s wrong?”
“Wrong?” she yells. “Are you kidding me? You’ve never been like that!”
“Like what? We were kissing.”
“You were not in the mood for kissing.”
“Jesus, Holly. You’re acting like we haven’t fucked plenty of times before.”
“And you’re acting like I’m a guarantee!”
“I’ve never thought that about you!”
Love’s head darts between them. It’s my fault. I compelled him.
Exasperated, Holly stabs her fingers through her mussed hair. “You should go.”
Griffin’s face falls. “In other words, I’m a monster, and we’re not talking this through.”
When she makes no reply, he nods and slips through the door. Beyond the window, Holly and Love watch his car pull out of the driveway, bright lights vanishing into the night. With a sob, the female slumps onto the bed, tears leaking down her face.
Love steps toward Holly, thinking to comfort her. Then she halts, remembering why that’s impossible.
With the correct arrow, she could have obliterated Griffin and Holly’s feelings for each other long ago, making things easier instead of maneuvering around those feelings. That’s often the solution when handling love triangles. This whole time, Love had forgotten to consider that.
Yet that would have been just as cruel.
Guilt stabs through her. For what she’s done, she is a beast.
Once Holly gets her crying under control, she wipes away the mascara cobwebbing down her face, and the muffled music lures her back to the guests. People give her discrete looks. They must have heard the shouting upstairs and witnessed Griffin leave. A pair of women coo over Holly while other females roll their eyes and mutter to one another from their respective corners.
Holly feigns a headache and retreats to the back of the house while Love shadows her. No one warns the hostess that Andrew’s outside. Love and Holly pause at the screen door and watch him on the porch bench. He’s hunched over in thought, a notebook abandoned beside him and his hair blending in with the frosted landscape.
A sad but comforted grin lifts Holly’s mouth, which Love can relate to. It’s how she feels whenever she sees this man. She wants to go to him, but it’s not her place. After Holly shuffles through the door, Love cranes her head to get a decent view through the partition.
“Hey,” Holly says.
Andrew glances at her in surprise, as though suddenly remembering where he is. “I can leave if you want the bench—”
“No, it’s okay,” she says when he moves to get up. “Griffin’s not here anyway. I mean, not that that’s why you’d… you know.”
She settles beside him, the bench croaking beneath her. Love’s hand chokes the doorknob when Holly’s leg brushes Andrew’s, both humans pretending to study the sky.
Actually, Holly pretends. Andrew openly scrutinizes The Stars, which poke holes into the darkness, as if he doesn’t trust them to stay up there.
“You came,” she muses.
“I was curious,” he answers, still fixating on the celestials.
After a pause, Holly draws in a shaky breath. “Griffin’s a good guy once you get to know him.”
More silence. Lost silence.
“About five years ago, I had appendicitis,” Holly blurts out. “I was in college, and we became best friends. Griffin stayed in the hospital all night, bought my family coffee and takeout, played with my little brothers so my parents could get a break. He went to my place, packed extra clothes and my favorite books, and got me a dozen of these vanilla marshmallows.” A weak chuckle escapes her. “He has no idea I hate marshmallows. I once pretended to like them, just as a joke. But Griffin took it seriously, and now he buys them for me all the time. It makes him happy to think I’m happy.
“But sometimes it’s too much. I know where it’s coming from. His family was verbally abusive while he grew up, constantly saying he’ll never amount to anything and belittling his ambitions.” Holly’s mouth turns down. “He wanted to be an artist.”
Andrew hunches forward and speaks to the ground. “I didn’t know that.”
“It stayed in the family and didn’t circulate much.” Holly shakes her head. “Griffin wanted to be a set designer for theatre productions and films. He moved away for a while, tried getting work, then fell back on contracting house renovations. His heart’s not invested, though. So I think… maybe he resents anyone who’s creatively successful. Especially someone he went to school with.”
Andrew winces, but Holly continues. “It’s not fair, and it doesn’t make him less of a prick for that incident in the park, which I blame both of you for. But seeing you succeed? It’s gotten to him, even if it actually has nothing to do with you. Griffin’s family hasn’t let him live down the choices he’s made. He’s forever beating himself up, trying to win their approval, hoping to prove himself worthy of the people in his life.”
“Including you,” Andrew concludes.
Holly swallows. “Including me. It’s hard for him to believe he’ll ever be good enough to keep someone. And oh, God. I’m ranting. It’s not as if you asked. We’ve never really known each other, yet I’m saying all this personal stuff.”
“You can say anything you want.”
His reassurance makes her grin. She shifts his way, the movement causing his notebook to fall from the bench. “Shit, sorry.” She beats Andrew to it, plucking the item off the floor, then pausing at an open page.
“A woman forged of iron, ebony dresses, and lonely smiles,” she recites. “A treacherous, remorseless soul. An unattainable myth.”
Love gasps. He’s been writing about her.
“Wow,” Holly marvels. “Is this for a new book?”
Andrew seizes the binder, his fingers tightening on the edges. “It’s nothing.”
“I didn’t mean to intrude,” she rushes to say. “The writing’s beautiful. That character sounds like she’s everyone to you.”
He sneers as if to reply, Love would like to think so .
“Or maybe this is a real person?” Holly ventures. “Someone you know?”
Turning the book in his hands, Andrew’s throat contracts. “I thought so.”
Holly sighs in understanding, her features crumpling once more. “Does it ever stop being complicated?”
She ponders the snow, as if the question has landed there. Love does the same. Why is the complication worth it?
“It’ll never stop,” Andrew murmurs. “If it’s easy, it’s not earned. But if it’s earned, that makes it stronger.”
Solemnly, Holly nods. “I don’t know why I’m bringing this up, but I remember in college. Although we weren’t friends, I noticed you. Lots of students did. You were striking to everyone, and you never seemed like the type who ever wanted or needed attention. You were confident, but also quiet.”
“Only because there was a lot more going on in my head,” he says. “Usually I was having conversations with fictional characters. Perfectly reasonable excuse.”
They laugh without humor. Love yearns to draw him back to her. Instead she stands there, letting herself be forgotten.
Holly and Andrew can touch. They do touch.
After a second’s hesitation, Andrew covers Holly’s hand with his own. The gesture only intensifies her grief, the floral scents of melancholy and heartache rising to the surface, permeating Love’s sensory perception. Holly longs for Griffin—to forgive him, to find a common ground. But since he isn’t here, she turns to Andrew, the need for comfort plain on her face.
She studies Andrew’s hand covering hers. Then she peeks up at him, the rhinestones of her eyes watery, pressure building behind the eyelids like a river shoving against a dam. In that instant, Love tastes the fermented flavor of the woman’s intent, the desolation she longs to suppress, the yearning for an alternative. For someone who doesn’t complicate her life.
There are moments that don’t require Love’s intervention, moments when human nature works on its own. Laughter, clinking glasses, and pumping music resonate from inside. Whereas outside, the mortal female scoots closer to the man watching her with a furrowed brow, and a helpless goddess spies on them.
“You delivered that book to my house even though I didn’t order it,” Holly recalls. “I thought maybe it was your way of reaching out.” Her gaze drops to his mouth. “Because if it was, maybe that’s okay.”
Love wants to shut her eyes, to look away. But she cannot.
Andrew stiffens, catching Holly’s meaning. “Holly, I—”
But the woman presses forward. With a deprived gasp, she slides her palm across his jaw and clamps her mouth over his.