23
The worst part is that Love feels their kiss. She senses the determination as Holly’s lips claim Andrew’s, the effect jabbing daggers into Love’s stomach. The embrace is one-sided at first, Andrew tensing in surprise.
But then…
Then he moves with caution, leaning and kissing her back. Although he remains idle, keeping distance between their bodies, Andrew relaxes his jaw as if permitting Holly to burrow in, his lips yielding to the motions. Indeed, his exhalation sounds resigned, haggard, bereft. At length, Andrew’s mouth opens fully, slanting with her own, the reciprocation visibly melting Holly like butter.
Madness crawls through Love, the calamity reaching her wings, the plumes begging for flight. She sinks her incisors into her trembling lower lip, sealing off the anguish so Andrew won’t hear her cry out. It takes several attempts, her bow lifting and dropping, lifting and dropping, lifting and dropping before she surrenders.
This is the perfect time to match them. But she can’t do it. Not yet.
Let them discover each other for real first.
Fluid stings her eyes, the novelty of tears threatening to scrape a path down her cheeks and make a weak immortal out of her. Summoning the meager willpower she has left, Love thrusts up her chin. She harnesses her archery and twists away, passing through mingling bodies, countless emotions swarming her like toxins from different areas of the soiree.
The farther she retreats, the quicker her pace becomes, until she’s running. Ripping open the front door, Love races across the lawn, then halts beside a group. She pretends to join them, chuckling along with whatever they’re saying, her mirth exaggerated because she has no idea what’s so uproarious, for she has arrived too late to hear the joke.
It’s no use. They cannot see her. She doesn’t belong.
Ripping her fingers through her hair, Love skitters backward, yearning to shoot something. Anything. She needs to match another couple, to remind herself why it’s important, to prove she can move on, that she’s capable.
Or if not, inciting a passionate feud between ill-suited lovers will at least amuse her, as such behavior once had.
Yet Love’s fingers fail to reach her arrows.
You’re fierce, clever, resourceful. You can do better than this. You are better than this.
Andrew’s words stay her hand, everything he’s ever said playing in her mind and dredging up something new within her. Something like a conscience.
“Let me know when you’re done theatricizing,” a voice grits out.
Teeth bared, Love finally snatches an arrow, nocks her longbow, and wheels toward Anger. In the half-light, the rage god festers beside Love, with his tattooed arms crossed and the harsh planes of his scowl angled down at her.
“Don’t you have protests to break up and murders to prevent?” she fumes.
“Yes,” he bites out. “If I could disregard your self-destruction, I would. You must think you’ll be praised for delaying the inevitable and looking incompetent at best, traitorous at worst.” Appalled, he gestures toward the revels. “Corrupt as well. Attempting to shoot mortals without tact, purely for your own pent-up release. Clearly, our Guides have misjudged your training.”
“I was not going to shoot anyone,” she says, her voice cracking like dried wood. “I… couldn’t.”
Her anguish must be palpable, because Anger’s severe features twitch reflexively. Yet the moment is fleeting, his expression darkening as he absorbs the hidden implication in her words, a corrosive noise vacating his lungs. “Fate’s almighty, Love. Your irrational attachment to this man is wilting your sense. To say little of your strength.”
“This is almost over. Andrew and his mate are currently entwined. With any luck, they’ll be fucking by midnight.”
“Bravo,” the god mocks. “Except that was not your doing, was it?”
Love glowers down the length of her arrow. “Spying again? How dare you! That kiss should have been private for them!”
“I trust you’re cognizant of your own hypocrisy.”
“They’re my match. I had no choice but to observe. And I left when—”
“Unlike you, I deny nothing,” Anger hisses, his wrath building. “Yet even if I had been absent, I hardly need to sleuth any longer, for your errors in judgment are smeared all over you. At your request, I defied celestial law by taming those other two mortals. Tonight, the lovers were ready, and still your bowstring went slack. There’s a word for this negligence. It’s called ‘deadly’!”
“Anger—”
“Do not fucking say my name! Just curb your insatiable appetite for the human and finish this!”
“Let go of me,” Love seethes.
Anger glares down to where he’s suddenly clasping her shoulders, his fingers digging into her flesh. Thankfully, Love had disarmed when he charged. Otherwise, she would have unintentionally speared through him.
The deity tears his hands away, the momentum causing her to stumble. He releases her as though he’s grabbed the edge of a blade. At the same time, Love holds her ground while rubbing the places where he’d seized her, the areas throbbing.
Her respirations slam against his own, like weapons crossing. They’ve never stood this close before.
Strong. His touch is so incredibly strong. Supposing he were able to love, Anger would do so with the same vigor. If he gave Love comfort, he would do it ferociously as well. He would fuse her to his body, if she asked him to.
Another female is feasting on Andrew’s mouth. Meanwhile, Anger could be clasping Love to his frame. However infuriating the god is, she changes her mind about him and wishes for the latter scenario, for a pair of arms to envelop her—a hint of rage to reinforce her.
Love’s naked expression seizes Anger in place, her longing diffusing his rancor. Visibly, he senses her thoughts. The silent plea ignites his being and kindles a long-deprived need to the surface, his graphite pupils firing like bolts of lightning.
Radiating with more than fury, Anger stalks forward, his shadow consuming her own. While her heart beats for someone else, Love permits the god to approach, transfixed by his intensity and the commotion it causes low in her navel.
Stars, this is inconceivable. This is Anger.
Anger .
He stops only when his chest braces against her tits, his pulse pounding, the impact jolting through her. This is foolish and fraudulent on her part. Yet it’s also essential, acceptable, and attainable.
It’s not possible to touch a mortal. But it’s possible to ensnare a god.
Please. Just once.
Let her know this feeling once. She doesn’t care with whom. At least for this hour, Love allows herself to believe that.
Anger’s nostrils broaden, his visage an electric thing, the wattage of his gaze setting her alight. Loneliness and pain expel from her lungs, manifesting into a plaintive cry for help.
Perhaps it’s a dose of pity. Perhaps he’s simply aggravated. Perhaps he’s seeking to fortify her.
The noise has barely caressed the air, when the desire to indulge Love tightens Anger’s features. He explodes into movement, intent on capturing her dress, yanking her forward, and crushing her against him.
Somehow, Love knows this before it happens. This male will pry open her lips and growl into them, flex his tongue with hers, and tear her to shreds with his kiss. His fingers will thrash into Love’s hair and fasten her head in place, the better to claim her. Anger will kiss Love the same way he’s liable to fuck. Violently. Destructively. Because that’s the way of a rage god.
Regardless of her desire for gentle touches, Love would enjoy the variety. But not with him.
She blinks and staggers backward, holding up a single palm. “No,” she whispers.
Anger freezes, the wind dicing through his shoulder-length hair. The rejection splits him in half. One part confusion, the other part restraint. As the crew’s leader, he is surely doing this to alleviate Love, to ease her burden and resurrect her loyalty, and feasibly to release his own stresses on her.
Some blithe Dark Gods would call it a practical move, to kiss and inevitably fuck the defiance out of her. But in the end, this will only tarnish their fellowship. The aftermath of rutting might be inconsequential to Anger, but such a capitulation—such a regret—won’t be to Love.
None of this will staunch the agony. None of it will empower her.
She will not forsake her dignity. Nor abuse Anger’s generosity.
Clarity returns to the god’s irises, which blaze with horror, remorse, and vehemence once he scans her more thoroughly. “Fuck eternal, how did I not see…” He clasps the sides of her face. “Look at you! You’re pale, exhausted, nearly depleted. At this rate, your body will turn gaunt within days. This is not a cursed game!” he thunders. “This is your life!”
Her stomach churns. “You wouldn’t understand.”
A deprived expression rushes across his face, then his eyes narrow to slits. “I’m not going to help you be frail. Do what you must, or condemn us all.”
Love turns and walks away. To his credit, Anger knows better than to pursue her.
In the main square, she detours and loots a clothing boutique. Running her hands over a shelf of loungewear, she discovers a bundle of silk, the texture like spun water. Sleep shorts, a matching camisole, and a pair of embroidered panties.
Something new to cover herself. Something human.
She’s not wearing Andrew’s coat tonight, so the transformation is less cumbersome. Love changes into the silk garments, balls up her dress, and stuffs it into her quiver. She decides to keep being headstrong and ventures to Andrew’s house, settling herself on the porch and waiting.
And waiting. And waiting.
By now, the soiree has likely ended. For all Love knows, Andrew is pinning Holly to a hard surface and thrusting his cock inside her. His mouth might be wrapped around the female’s nipple, sucking and nipping. He might be using that snarky, human tongue to flick sinful words in her ear, all to enhance the sex.
Or he might whisper ardent phrases while brushing her skin and coaxing out her sighs. He might be making love with the sort of devoted passion granted to his kind. The type of reverent sensuality Love has imagined a thousand times.
Andrew is capable of both. Decadence and worship. She knows this without having experienced it, apart from his pen tracing her pussy.
“What are you doing here?” a voice clips.
From the shadows, Andrew approaches like a myth of his own making. He’s agile, carrying himself with his own supernatural grace, and the tousled layers of his hair gleam like ice. With those pewter irises, prominent muscles, and a shoulder bag trapped in his fist—which must contain the notebook—he resembles an ethereal wordsmith. A god of fiction.
Love’s heart vaults into her throat. She rises while fidgeting with the silk camisole, which claims his attention for an instant, his jaw flexing.
To her misery, his gray coat is split open. Yet it had been closed at the soiree.
Andrew’s gaze skewers from the camisole to Love’s face, then slackens in concern, her depleted state evident to him. “Love,” he rasps, stepping toward her, vengeance dominating his voice. “What’s happened? Who did this—”
“I’m fine,” she insists. “This is no one’s doing but mine. I’ve not been resting.”
His gaze tightens. Although he knows deities cannot fall ill, it’s clear how abysmal she looks. On that front, Andrew is deciding whether to believe her excuse, wrap his arms around her, or exact revenge on whomever he thinks has been victimizing Love.
Yearning squeezes her ribcage. How badly she longs to accept his embrace, let him bring her into his home where he will care for her, keeping her safe until the end of her days.
If she were human. If she were his.
This man will come when his lover calls, when they need him, when they have nothing left inside them, when they’re but a husk of themself. He’ll tend to his partner without fail, sit beside them through sleepless nights, and whisper until they’re comforted. This man will do anything for his mate.
Little does this mortal know he’s also the reason she’s fading. Little does he know how thoroughly he’s killing her, how true of an enemy he is.
Before Andrew can press the subject, Love deflects. “Where were you?”
“Fuck where I was,” he growls. “Tell me what the hell is going on. Now.”
“No one is impairing me!” she shouts. “No one but you!”
Andrew freezes, his eyes flashing with comprehension. Very well. Not only are twisted truths often more effective than lies, but this man has a way of seeing through her like glass. Partial honesty shall go farther with him, lest this mortal should refuse to drop the matter.
He releases a heavy breath. “I would never hurt you. I’d drive a stake through my chest first.” Gently, he shakes his head. “Why did you vanish from the street?”
Love reasons, “Holly was there.”
“I didn’t want to be with Holly!”
“I evanesced but didn’t go far. In fact, I overheard her invitation.” Love sidles nearer. “Must have been a pleasant revel.”
Yet Andrew interprets the bluff for what it really is. “You were there.” Muttering an oath, he rakes a hand through his hair. “Christ. You watched our conversation. You saw what happened between us.”
Us. They’re an us now.
Fighting to keep her voice even, Love points out, “You weren’t doing much talking.”
At her frayed words, pain stretches his features taut. “Love…”
Another fragile noise catches in her throat. Her name has never sounded so alive. She doesn’t have the will to conceal what this means to her. Or maybe part of her wants him to see her destroyed.
Refusing to succumb to the impulse, she levels her trembling chin. “Was it nice?”
“Fucking hell.” Andrew strides forward. “You’re not playing fair.”
“Was it nice to touch a woman? To be touched back?”
“Stop it,” he hisses. “You can’t do this. You can’t bring light into my life, then routinely disappear on a whim without it gutting me. You can’t reign supreme inside my fucking head, consume every waking moment, then lie to me, push me away, and hold it against me for spending time with a friend, and then come here and act like I’m a trinket that’s been stolen from you. I’ve been obsessed since day one, but you’re only interested in me because I can see you. Because I’m another one of your human toys.”
“No. It’s because I feel sorry for you!” she snarls back.
Hurt tears through Andrew’s features. “You’re lying,” he insists, but his voice hitches at the end, doubt creeping in.
“You’re not supposed to see me. I didn’t trust you at first and had to investigate. And yes, we had our pleasant moments. And when you learned what my people do to mortals, I felt obligated to mollify your fury before it ran rampant. As for tonight’s revel, I endeavored to make sure you didn’t expose what I’ve revealed to you. A being such as myself cannot be too careful, though I’m grateful I was wrong to concern myself. You’re quite the burden.”
That last part is true. He is a burden, and she loves him for it.
“Otherwise, I have no need for your company. At most, it was a minor diversion,” she finishes, detesting herself for this speech and what it does to Andrew’s face.
Yet as she’d anticipated, he recovers quickly. His expression conceals the sorrow she’d just witnessed, his eyes sharpening like ice. “Huh.”
What the devil does huh mean?
It means, “Then maybe I’ll call Holly tomorrow—,” she gasps as Andrew stalks her way until their bodies melt together, his chest shoving through hers, “—and pick up where we left off.”
This is the second time a male has lunged for her tonight, and the first time one of them has succeeded in penetrating her. In seconds, Andrew’s proximity eviscerates the memory of how it had felt with Anger.
Andrew’s breath skates across her tremulous mouth, the sensation reducing her vigilance to ash. In its place, the stamina she’d lost replenishes itself, only with greater force, infused with a different sort of power. Their lips slide into one another like steam; somehow, the invisible contact crackles like a fuse. Andrew’s eyes shudder, the mercury of his irises consuming her, and his pectorals scrape through her breasts.
Stars. Any more of this, and she will voluntarily suffocate.
Mustering the last vestiges of her energy, Love snatches the notebook from Andrew’s bag, takes advantage of his shock, and opens it to find another passage.
Glass eyes and lying mouth. Hands that slip inside my chest and find my heart.
Clipped onto the inside cover is the note he’d written to her.
Who is this Selfish Little Myth?
She yanks the page from its clasp. Andrew lunges, rescuing the notebook and bending it in the process. Yet he’s not quick enough. Love only needs that one passage, the lines that refuse to go away. Before she can stop herself, she rips the leaflet apart, shredding it in half, the scraps falling around them like ribbons and landing in the snow.
With a harsh noise, Andrew crashes to the ground and rescues the soggy pieces. Kneeling at her feet and holding the mess in his hands, he slices his gaze up at hers, grimacing through shattered, hateful features.
The sight annihilates Love. She wants to fall beside him, to bow her head and beg his pardon.
Why is she doing this? Why must he matter?
Slowly, Andrew rises and towers above her. “You don’t need the power of touch. Not to destroy me,” he whispers. “You break my heart without lifting a finger.”
Love holds out her hands, imploring. “Andrew, I—”
“I wish I’d never met you.” He backs up. “Get the fuck away from me.”
It appears he doesn’t need to touch her either. Not to make Love suffer. She doesn’t know what to do with this terrible, destructive feeling, and she’s tired, desperate to fix this night, and grief-stricken because the more she tries, the worse it will get.
In his eyes, everything about her is a torment. And she agrees with him.
“Fine,” she blusters.
“Fine,” he grits back.
Yet. Neither of them moves. His eyes drag to her mouth, and her gaze commits the same crime.
Impatient, Andrew speaks to her lips, “On the count of three.”
Her mouth tingles, but she nods. On three, she whirls away and hears his footsteps storm across the porch, the door slamming behind him while she charges through the woods.
Love has never cried before. Yet upon returning to the glass cottage, she studies her tear-streaked reflection in the glass, her maroon irises dark like a pair of bleeding hearts.