Chapter 5
Envy
It’s a three-step process. To start, his gaze slides to the flecks shimmering beneath her lower lashes, as if she’s been weeping stars for an eternity.
Then he proceeds to the tear-colored irises.
Lastly, he draws out the next words, wedging every syllable into the space between them.
“But you still break, don’t you? Sad little goddess. ”
Sorrow flinches. Her eyebrows crimp as if that final part has struck true, though it lasts only a second. Because that’s the thing about a trauma goddess. She knows how to recover from a sucker punch.
“You’re bitter that I understood Andrew while you didn’t,” she translates.
“You hate being left out, because you want to be taken seriously even though you’ve got nothing to show for yourself but a glass arrow, a hidden inferiority complex, and a fancy wardrobe that any of us can conjure.
That’s the extent of your breakage. That’s as much as you know about being in pain. ”
Fuck this. And fuck her.
“You’re one to talk,” Envy sneers through his teeth. “You wouldn’t recognize the opposite of pain if it nibbled on your clit. If I know nothing about anguish, then you know even less about pleasure. Fess up, Goddess of Sorrow. You’re a black cloud and a pessimistic killjoy.”
For a second, her pupils tremble like thawed ice, and her lips clamp shut.
Shit. Envy hesitates, because why the fuck does it bother him to see that reaction? Worse, to know he’s the cause?
It’s such a candid reaction that Envy forgets to congratulate himself on the retort, which had come out harsher than he’d intended. And louder. So loud that they could have been overheard in a soundproof room. Loud enough to yank everyone out of their sleep, causing them to gawk in his direction.
Usually, Envy likes being a centerpiece. But not at this moment. Fates almighty, this female has a talent for making the spotlight a regrettable experience.
“Have we interrupted a lover’s quarrel?” Merry yawns.
“Seems to me, we interrupted a potential homicide,” Malice contests. “Or a dark porno. Or a homicide that segues into a dark porno.”
“You interrupted nothing, because there’s nothing here,” Sorrow vents, gesturing between herself and Envy. “So for the last time, stop getting your hopes up.”
“Precisely,” Envy concurs. “Look, tropes are fine. I have nothing against forbidden love—” he indicates Love and Andrew, “or unrequited pining and betrayal—,” he flicks his wrist toward Anger and Merry, “—or enemies-to-lovers,” he gestures to Wonder and Malice.
“I don’t mind, especially if I’m reading erotica.
But if you’re spoiling for a marriage of convenience, you’ve got the wrong deities. ”
“Courtship of convenience,” Andrew corrects.
“Is that a trope?” Merry inquires.
“It’s bullshit, is what it is,” Sorrow summarizes, her pupils hardening into stones, and the jaded tilt of her lips ascending higher up her face.
Envy rises and straightens his ensemble, which is now dry.
All the same, it takes more effort than he’d like to manipulate his features and toss an indifferent look Sorrow’s way.
Such an irregularity, when he’s spent his existence perfecting whatever expression benefitted him.
This skill is supposed to come naturally, as it has in the past. He’s rarely had to work at subterfuge before.
So in what universe is this suddenly a challenge? And why with her?
Again, that unbidden memory surges to the forefront. A target range and countless witnesses observing Envy flat on his back while a feminine shadow leans over him and speaks under her antagonistic breath. He recalls how the words ground into his psyche and stung his flesh with humiliation.
An ugly god is easy to spot.
Envy leaches the corrosive vision from his mind. Sorrow’s opinion has never mattered. Growing up, the surly bitch had been a thorn in his side, as unattractive as her funeral-inspired wardrobe. That’s all.
Later—much later—only the decibel of her moans while he pistoned his cock into her held any magnitude.
They’d had their fun, her pussy clutching him while they came hard, long, and frequently.
The cantankerous goddess had been a conquest, the victory of which he’d repeatedly applauded himself.
Not that Envy had doubted his prowess, but he deserves the gaudiest, most ostentatious trophy for bedding Sorrow.
Actually, never mind the trophy. He’s earned a crown inlaid with diamonds for splitting her thighs as wide as he had. At least, before inevitably coming to his senses.
As for Sorrow’s judgements, viewpoints, reactions, impressions, assumptions, lamentations, and whatever the fuck else he’s forgetting to include, it’s still immaterial.
Isn’t it? Why should any of the nonsense that drips from her mouth with the slow regularity of a leaky faucet bother him?
To the pond, he’d pursued her. Sleeping amid infernal nature had kept Envy awake. When he’d noted Sorrow’s absence, two reactions played a tug-of-war, one visceral, the other logical. Either she’d been kidnapped by the enemy, or she went on a private quest, for secret reasons.
Envy hadn’t cared for those prospects. The notion of her as a prisoner or a traitor. Either would result in him tearing her captors to shreds or tearing Sorrow to shreds.
Blessedly, his concerns were futile. As usual with her, Envy had overreacted, choosing dramatics over rationality. This became apparent as he went hunting after Sorrow, seeking a glimpse of that bleak hair color, the lingering scent of black tea, smoke, and violet guiding him.
His excuse about visiting the pond, intending to self-medicate his stress with a dose of masturbatory bliss, had been a lie. He’d located Sorrow around the same time he noted a shift in the wind, along with rifts in the brambles.
Already, Envy had sensed an intrusive presence nearby. He should have known it wasn’t coming from her, but then this goddess has a nasty habit of redirecting his brain to less productive thoughts. So instead, he chalked up the disturbance to mutual discord, the residue of their animosity lingering.
But why Envy remained to watch the goddess swim remains a mystery. Had he been worried for her? Protective of her? Fuck no. Sorrow can take care of herself.
Perhaps Envy had wanted to ridicule the female for being careless. And maybe spy a little. Just a little, to see what she does when she’s by herself.
He’d expected to find Sorrow howling at the moon or engaging in some other cliché. But he hadn’t expected to find the goddess swimming buck naked like a dark siren, her thighs spreading with the sort of rhythmic prowess that dredged up more impure thoughts than his cock could handle.
Sorrow, swimming? Enjoying herself? Since when?
The second phenomenon Envy had endured was a demotion of sorts.
For the first time in his life, he’d acted like a territorial brute, charging into a female’s personal space without being invited.
He’s unaccustomed to intruding on his conquests.
His lovers have only ever flocked to him like pixies in heat.
All Envy’s ever had to do was stand by and wait.
He has never been unwelcome. He has never felt so thoroughly unwanted. He has never felt the bite of it.
The boat jostles. Where the fuck are they going anyway?
Ahead, the cliffs spread out. Out of nowhere, the river yanks on the boat, the pole spurting white flame. Motes flash through the air, indicating a rushing current.
The summit widens, closer than before. Water expands like a gasping lung, hurling a wet sheet at them, which lands with a vicious smack and drenches the crew. In unison, they veer toward the incoming chaos.
The stars glitter as if disappointed in Envy. Not only should he behave better, but while his comrades were resting, he should have paid attention.
He should have fucking remembered. Rivers have rapids.