Touch (Dark Gods: Selfish Myths #1)

28

The mortal is right. This is indeed pleasant. Love decides as much while nocking her bow, stashing herself behind an evergreen, and listening for his movements somewhere in the forest.

They’ve been at this mock-combat for an hour, turning the wilderness into a makeshift battleground, hunting one another through the woods, stalking each other with their archery. Part training practice, part archery competition, part mating call. Essentially, predator against prey. Though, the roles constantly switch depending on who steals the upper hand.

Thickets of snow cover the ground, potholed by their footprints. Branches quiver, some skeletal, others bristling with needle leaves. Late afternoon paints the woods in amber, and the world has gone silent.

At the snap of a twig, Love grins like a fiend. Twisting from the trunk, she fires. The arrow flies, slicing past Andrew’s head as he swerves with an inch to spare, his smirk flashing. He lands on a bended knee and looses a projectile. Feeling crafty, Love evades with a backward flip, the skirt of her dress flapping to reveal a naked backside and a patch of intimate hair.

As her soles hit the ground, she springs upright, with another arrow braced. But from across the divide, Andrew growls, “That’s cheating.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she sings with a tilted head, spreading her thighs like a tease. “Did we establish a rule against exposure?”

The mortal’s eyes drop to the vent between her legs, then scrapes his teeth across his lips and aims down the length of his arrow. “Cruel goddess.”

“Susceptible mortal,” she tosses back.

With a husky snarl, Andrew releases his weapon. Beaming mercilessly, Love bounds into the air, spins a full axis, and dodges the arrow. Dropping to the ground, she hunkers on all fours like a creature. Yet by the time she peers through the trees, the mortal is gone.

Her eyes squint. He’s decided to get sneaky.

Well. She likes that. Matter of fact, Love fancies the way he toys with her, as much as she does with him. Their sportive natures prove as diverting as watching Andrew stroke his cock and finding alternative ways to touch. Or rather, combat is nearly as a diverting, a decent substitute for fucking.

A shadow moves in her periphery. Love pursues the specter while easing back her bowstring. “You have something about me on your mind,” she calls out. “I’m eager to hear it.”

From Andrew’s hidden spot, his voice feigns confusion. “And what makes the goddess think it’s about her?”

“It’s always about me,” she responds smugly.

“Fuck, you’re such a little—”

Love prowls through the trees, her mouth slanting. “For such a chivalrous human, you have quite an explicit tongue.”

His head emerges from an evergreen shrub, his expression impish. “You like it?”

“I wouldn’t be me if I didn’t.” But then she veers from another arrow and glowers at the mortal for taking advantage.

“I wouldn’t be me if I didn’t enjoy that answer,” he quips, then flings himself behind a trunk when her archery shoots past him. “You’re going easy on me.”

Love grunts. “And as usual, you’re holding back.”

It’s true for him. Not necessarily for her.

Though unlike at the archery range, Love doesn’t infuse her bow with small doses of infatuation rather than risk breaking his skin. Although the former would protect Andrew from harm, this mortal doesn’t wish to be controlled. And while that fate will be unavoidable soon, she’s not about to rob him of more free will than necessary. Also, she refuses to manipulate his feelings towards her.

For a human, Andrew possesses the advanced skill of a bowman, evading her maneuvers with finesse. In some ways, it’s a pity; nicking him has its appeal. Drawing blood would require Love to play nurse. Strip him down. Lick his wounds.

Perhaps later.

Andrew hollers, “I was thinking deities are full of shit. Your kind believe mates need to be perfect for each other. But that’s convenience, not love. It’s not the same as finding someone who knows your demons as well as your desires. Someone who challenges yet understands you. A person you can grow alongside, complexities and all.”

Love has donned the black coat over her dress. The open panels should hinder movement, yet it doesn’t for her. She tumbles forward and fires again, the arrowhead stabbing the empty spot where Andrew had been.

When she denies him a response, Andrew yells from another spot. “In my head, it’s all about you. But there’s more at stake. This is about your targets. People, as I like to call them.”

“Allow me to debate the matter. To humans, fate is this”—she flicks her free wrist—“this fantastical entity written in The Stars, which leads to orchestrated meetings and romance. Being chosen and having their paths set for them makes your people feel special. It’s alluring until one puts a dress on fate and arms it with a bow. According to you, if this world could see me, its inhabitants would act on their double standards and hunt me down.”

Because the topic riles her up, Love gets carried away. Andrew’s silence confirms he’s analyzing her response. Meanwhile, they surge into conflict, only the twangs of arrows, the vibrations of strings, and their panting exhalations breaching the quiet. Arrows soar. Blades puncture the trees. Mortal and immortal silhouettes cut across the snow.

Andrew is clever. Too late, Love realizes he’s been steering her toward an evergreen clearing. Turning in a circle, she aims her weapon, tensing with excitement when he emerges from a thicket, also targeting her.

They step around one another, neither of them disarming. As they circuit, Andrew’s rebuttal echoes through the woods. “Your so-called ideals have to do with flawlessness. In my realm, that’s an illusion. Lovers fuck up each other’s world, inspire each other, and go through hell and back with each other. They struggle together, heal together, and make sacrifices together. That’s what binds them. That makes them strong. Lightness and darkness. Pain and bliss. A real bond is an imperfect one. Humans like the sound of fate, but we also want to know we had something to do with our lives—that we earned what’s ours. Like hell do we want it to be faked.”

Love’s feet remain nimble while maneuvering around Andrew. “How do you know so much about being linked to another? How? When I’m the one who’s out there—” she jerks her bow toward the woodland, the village at its border, and the world beyond, “presiding over each of those matches.”

He strides forward until the points of their arrows tap. “Because I feel it with you.”

Her respiration hitches. “No one else?”

When he remains quiet, two reactions tear Love in half. Although he’s a self-proclaimed recluse, her jealousy fades. He’s never felt a bond with another potential mate, including Holly, yet Love detests the thought of him being alone.

“Where’s your mother?” she wonders.

Grief flickers across his face. “Dead.”

His hollow tone makes her stomach constrict. “I’m sorry,” Love whispers, though the gesture feels inadequate.

Andrew’s throat bobs, his grip on the longbow wavering. “I was young. She sped off an icy road and crashed us into a tree.”

Her weapon falters. “Why?”

“It was an accident. She wanted things she couldn’t have—namely, my real father. He left her for someone else the year before.” His expression grows remote, haunted. “Back then, we lived outside Evershire, in an apartment she could afford, although she pulled strings to get me into the school here. The day she died, she picked me up, and a song played on the stereo while we were driving home. It was a tune my dad and her used to dance to.”

He lowers his archery. “She tried to hide it from me, wiped her eyes under her glasses, and just like that—the glasses slipped off her face. But if I’d just leaned over to get them for her, she wouldn’t have taken her eyes off the fucking road.”

Love pictures herself dashing across the driveway, hauling his childlike frame out of the car and dragging him away before his mother can turn on the ignition. More than that, Love wants to do something, anything to wipe the sorrow and guilt from Andrew’s face.

“It wasn’t your fault,” she insists, her weapon falling to her side.

He glances away, a muscle thumping in his jaw. “She believed in the afterlife. In some of my books, I’ve created the types of worlds she would have loved, as if my writing is a portal, a way for her to find those places in death. But sometimes, I wish I’d died with her, so she wouldn’t have taken her final breath alone and ended up… wherever she really is… by herself.”

“Andrew. Do not ever think that.”

After a beat of silence, his voice flattens. “Growing up, I thought my family was invincible. I thought they could fix anything—broken toes, famine, animal extinction. I realized I was wrong after they split up. Then Ulrik got elected as the Rebound Husband who couldn’t make her happy. He adored my mother but never really won her heart, and he hasn’t gotten that failure out of his system.”

Love hisses, “So he takes the loss out on you.”

“She was driving because I had school in the village.”

“That means nothing! For that moment to happen, a million particulars had to align. You could no sooner blame the ice, the song, and the car’s speed. You did nothing wrong, and she would tell you as much if she could.”

Andrew glances back at Love, the lacquer of his irises softer now. “Even if it wasn’t my fault, Ulrik rages because he’s heartbroken. Although he hated being saddled with me after Mom’s death, he saw it through, kept me out of an orphanage. I owed him for that. So when I got older, and the book royalties increased beyond what I’d expected, I bought a house in the village. My mother dreamed of living here, so I got her the home she always wanted, and I moved Ulrik in with me.”

Love blinks in confusion. “If he resents you, why does he live there?”

“It’s an arrangement. Like I said, I owe him. He needs someone around, and I can afford the medical bills.” Andrew gives Love a grave look, frost clouding from his lips. “He’s got heart problems.”

That quiets her. This must be another reason why Andrew had been furious with Love for beseeching Anger to target Ulrik.

She opens her mouth to apologize, but Andrew shakes his head. “Don’t. I understand now.”

“I could have paired your mother with Ulrik,” Love says. “They would have been happy. If you had the choice, would you have stopped me?”

Instantly, she curses herself for using Andrew’s tragedy to validate her existence. Nevertheless, temptation flashes across his visage.

“Fair enough,” Andrew allows. “In that case, she might still be alive. But even the slightest change, the smallest shift in events, can alter the course of someone’s life. In that case, I might not have met you.”

Love glances at a puddle of melted snow. “You would have grown up happy. Not isolated and undervalued.”

She would have wanted that for him. More than knowing Andrew, Love would have chosen to spare him the loss.

All the same, the advantages and disadvantages of what she does war in her mind. She creates one kind of rapture for people while robbing them of other forms.

Andrew tips his head down, urging her to look at him. “Yes. I’d have wanted my mother happy and alive if I had the choice. In a moment of weakness, I might have taken you up on those arrows, let you strike her and Ulrik. It wouldn’t have been right, but it would have erased their anguish.” His eyes trace her own. “Ulrik’s been acting as if we’ve always been close. It’s not really him, but I’m starting to feel relieved about that—I’m grateful for his sake, not mine. It’s better to see him at peace instead of suffering. You’re making it hard to regret that.”

Love’s chest tightens. Before she can muster a proper response, Andrew harnesses his weapons. “Enough bloodshed and angst. You’ve won this round. Nearly impaled my limbs several times.”

“Are you complaining?” she jests.

“Little Myth, you should know by now. Your lethal nature is my kink.” He extends his hand. “Put away the death bow and come with me.”

Briefly, they return to the cottage. Andrew retrieves a bag he’d left outside the door, having forgotten its existence the second Love grabbed his cock.

After reclaiming the parcel, he leads her to the frozen pond. At the water’s edge, Love makes a sound of apprehension when he pulls two pairs of ice skates from the bag.

“What are those?” she draws out.

“I said I would teach you,” he reminds her. “When I brought it up before our fight.”

“Which fight? There have been many.”

His mouth twitches. “You looked intrigued that day. And crestfallen, as if drawn to something impossible.”

“That had nothing to do with the skates.” She shakes her head, bidding a retreat. “I cannot.”

“You can.” He trails in her wake. “I’ll help you”

“That’s offensive. I’m as agile as a feline,” she declares. “I mean, this is ridiculous.”

“Love.”

“This activity is for children .”

“Love.”

“ Human children.”

“You won’t fall,” Andrew promises. “I won’t let you. And if you do crash on your pretty ass, I’m the only person who’ll see it.”

The declaration halts Love in place. He won’t laugh or ridicule her if she falls.

She can climb the tallest tree. She can take down a legion of gods with a flex of her bow. She can do this too.

They deposit their archery on the ground and lace up their skates. It’s impressive that Andrew has guessed the right shoe size for Love.

On the pond, their blades cut across the ice. She bites her tongue in concentration, cognizant of her shaky elbows, unsteady limbs, and laboring breaths. Andrew skates backward, using a broad stick to bridge their hands and guide her around the rim.

When she’s ready, the mortal pulls the stick away. Love yelps, her limbs tensing, then kicking, then gliding. They make it to the center of the ice, where they spin in a full circle, her wide eyes stapled to his.

Snowfall powders the woods. Love halts and cocks her head toward the sky, noting the signs. “A storm is coming,” she announces. “It will be a mighty one. In two days.”

“You look sexy in that coat,” he murmurs.

She catches Andrew’s gaze fixated on her, his eyes carving a path from the skates, up the dress, and to her countenance. “I wanted you to keep the coat because I thought you were freezing, but also because you looked fuckably sexy in it. I’d like to rip it from your body, along with that sinister dress, until you’re wearing nothing but those skates. Too bad we left the longbows at the pond’s edge, because that would be another bonus accessory.” His voice travels up her skin like a brush of satin. “I want you in that sheet again, naked and writhing while I bury my cock inside your slick cunt, and I want your breath on my skin, and your fingers passing through my body, and my name shattering on your tongue. I want to see you blissful, coming undone—not for me, but for yourself. I want you for all the reasons I’ve said, and for more reasons the longer I’m with you. Take everything from me, destroy me beyond repair, and I’ll let you do it again.”

He holds out the stick. “Get over here. I’ll welcome any type of closeness I can have.”

This impossible mortal waits. However, because her heart has launched into her throat, Love does the only other thing a goddess can do when a mortal man is offering his soul to her. She accepts him.

Reaching out, her fingers brush against his.

Just like that. A touch.