Chapter 1
Sorrow
It’s not the first time he’s seen her naked, but it’s the first time she makes him regret it. Sorrow dunks her head beneath the water’s surface, fluid licking her calves and brushing her spine. Dammit. This secluded pond would be heaven if her least favorite god weren’t spying on her.
She doesn’t need to peek. After millennia of tolerating this male, his presence and posture are evident without having to guess. Nor does Sorrow bother gauging how long he’s been standing there, since that requires more consideration than the conceited prick deserves.
She pictures the male figure casually leaning one bulky shoulder against the willow tree, its trunk sprouting from the depths, branches spreading like an umbrella.
Likely, shadows are caressing his face, accentuating the high ramps of his cheekbones.
A pair of insolent eyes are following her movements, the irises rich and molten, oozing conceit as he judges her from his pedestal.
Sorrow would bet the god’s right nut that he’s wearing cashmere. Preppy bastard.
The fucker is watching me. But he doesn’t want to. Not anymore.
Accurate enough. He’s spying against his will. This has nothing to do with enticement or attachment, the knowledge pinching her ribcage. Rather, he’s checking on Sorrow out of obligation, making sure she doesn’t cause trouble, as if she’s a loose cannon prone to mishaps.
Offense prickles her flesh. She can take care of her fucking self. Of everyone in their crew, Sorrow is the last member to cause an uproar.
Gnashing her teeth, she cuts across the pond, her limbs beating eddies out of the way. All the while, his gaze trails her like a spotlight. But if it’s too hard for him to look away, then it’s still too easy for him to look away.
Hard isn’t enough. She’d rather make it excruciating In which case, best not to let umbrage get the better of her. It will only make Sorrow thrash about and swim sloppily.
Submerging herself, she flips her eyelids open. Murk swirls before Sorrow, the gray strings of her hair weightless and floating. She slows her pace, breast-stroking with a lazy spread of her thighs, enhancing the motions to their physical advantage.
Let him see everything.
After a few taunting laps, her body shoots upward, breaking the surface with a deep, resentful arc. Sorrow’s hair whips back, slapping her skin with enough force that it stings. At three-thousand years old, occasionally she forgets her own strength, the destructive impact she makes on herself.
While straightening, Sorrow sinks her bare feet into the spongy foundation. Despite the swim, the depth is shallow. The pond rises only high enough to cover her hips, the upper half of her naked frame exposed as she shakes out the sodden tresses.
Droplets sluice down her tits, the beads coursing an uneven path over the ruched nipples. Again, she feels that odious hyperawareness of an unwelcome audience, his condescending eyes raking across her drenched, unclad figure.
Strange. Sorrow wouldn’t know if the water is warm or cold, yet her flesh pebbles, the onslaught rushing along her skin. The breeze could be the culprit, but she’s not about to delude herself about its true source.
It’s disgust, that’s all. She hates when he stares at her for longer than three seconds. In the past, he did so out of hostility, assessing the physical traits that didn’t meet his immaculate standards. Though these days, she can never tell what he’s searching for whenever his gaze strays to her.
The sylvan woodland encloses this pond, encasing it in a dense oasis. It’s isolated, yet with her ex-lover’s whipcord silhouette filling in the gaps, the environment shrinks further. He idles by the willow tree, its roots clawing into the pond and sucking up moisture.
She grabs a few ropes of hair and twists them in a chokehold, excess liquid spilling from the strands. “Are you just going to stand there and gawk, God of Envy?”
His velveteen voice wastes no time. “Are you just going to stand there and let me, Goddess of Sorrow?”
Her feet are stalking in his direction before she realizes it, streams of water ejecting around her and splattering mineral rocks. His physique gets larger as Sorrow gets nearer, and she stops within smacking distance.
Burnished complexion. Long, mahogany hair tied in a low ponytail. Straight nose with an arrogant bump over the bridge.
Up close, Envy is what he’s always been.
An immortal douchebag. Tonight, he has indeed outfitted himself in cashmere trousers.
A button-down shirt tucks into the waistband, the collar venting open at the throat and the sleeves rolled up his forearms, the white material a stark contrast to his light brown skin.
Even while on a mission such as theirs, he can’t resist sprucing himself up as if headed into a high-end brothel instead of enemy territory.
Of all their kind, he’s the only deity who dresses like the human version of a corporate hoe.
To avoid getting soaked, Envy’s trouser hems are jammed up his calves. The effort is pointless, not to mention odd, since he’s precious about defiling his wardrobe.
Case in point, Sorrow tilts her head at the ensemble. “Is that a wrinkle?”
It’s a predictable shot to the ego. In record time, Envy’s chiseled features condense into a dandified grimace.
Like a reflex, he detaches himself from the tree trunk, his muscled frame rippling beneath the clothes as if he’s made of rocks.
Straightening, the god runs both palms over his thighs, attempting to iron out the invasive creases in the textile.
When that fails, Sorrow makes the mistake of snorting, which earns her a contemptible glance.
Resuming his original position, Envy crosses his arms over that broad chest, the expanse of which requires its own map.
Caramel irises carve a path down her nudity, from the pert nipples to the glistening patch of dark hair concealing her cunt.
His pupils glint like a pair of firecrackers, then surge back to her face, the orbs gleaming with mockery.
“You should heed your own wrinkles instead,” he patronizes. “Unless you’d like me to use my hands and smooth them out for you.”
Because she’s dripping, it would be hilarious to shake herself and spritz his outfit with algae. Except that would imply he’s worth her time and energy. It would mean his words affect her.
For all she knows, he’s come here to admire his reflection in the pond, but her presence has derailed that goal. Just like he’d ruined her skinny-dipping break. Although it’s past midnight, nighttime excursions are her favorite.
“You’re neglecting your beauty sleep,” she chides.
Captain Ego scoffs. “As if I need it.”
“Based on the grass stains tarnishing your pants, I disagree. With all this nature surrounding you, I’d wager being forced to snooze on the ground kept you from dreaming about your attributes. I know how much you love camping.”
“And I know how much you love camping next to me.”
Fuck him hard. “What are you doing out here?”
“Why?” The god hooks his thumbs into his belt loops. “Do I get a spanking, my nymph?”
Yep. He couldn’t wait for an opportunity to be a hotshot. “Actually, I’m just humoring you like the needy tramp you are.”
Although Envy’s casual posture doesn’t change, an offended light flashes through his eyes. Mortification, perhaps?
Ugh. The chances of that are as high as seeing him in a cotton hoodie.
His self-adoration is historic. During their brief foray into fuckery, they hadn’t learned much else of substance about each other, outside of how loud they could make each other come. Over the generations, they’ve shared about as many secrets as kisses, which is to say, zero.
The goal had been sex. Nothing more.
Never mind that she’s right about the grass stains aggravating this god to the point of insomnia. Never mind that he won’t admit it. Evidently, this is the reason he’d noticed her absence from the crew in the first place.
Envy has the nerve to cross an invisible boundary, looming forward to get in Sorrow’s face.
As his scowl clashes with hers, the god slants his head, his breath a whisper across her jaw.
“Oh, I can remember a time when you sounded mighty needy yourself,” he purrs, the words as thick as syrup.
“I remember you twisting my name into so many different cries. I remember it breaking on the edge of your lips. I remember the loud pitch slipping off your tongue, begging for more.”
Animosity charges across Sorrow’s flesh, chafing down to the cleft in her thighs. She should have seen that one coming. In hindsight, she should have never encouraged his dick, much less her pussy, to begin with.
Lust is dangerous. It unhinges the mouth, the tongue, and the brain until all three collapse in tandem.
The effect turns deities into colossal idiots who can’t keep their traps shut, all that moaning having split their lips too far apart, leaving them wide open and spewing things they’ll eventually regret.
Things like, “Fuck me.”
Refusing to back off, Sorrow quirks an eyebrow. “I’ve got a better question for you. What’s it like to be desperate for attention, for the span of three millennia? Now that, I’m curious about.”
There it is again. That bolt of light, along with a bonus curl of the lips, some type of hybrid between a sneer and a snarl.
Envy does another fresh appraisal of her nude body, dissecting every feature, which is now damp and sticky.
When his gaze reaches her lips, words from the past infiltrate Sorrow’s memory.
“I like seeing that snarky little mouth parted. I bet every inch would tremble against my tongue.”
He said that before they’d first gone feral and pounced on each other. Shortly before. Like, seconds before.
But tonight, the sight of her lips repels this nemesis. He regards Sorrow with flippant distaste, just as he used to regard her prior to this affair and over the course of their lives. As if he’s too good for her.