Chapter 9 Sorrow
Sorrow
During the first centuries of their lives, bonding hadn’t been a priority. They were busy training for their respective purposes. Apart, they learned from their Guides the intricacies of their root emotions. Together, archery practice and lessons held within the misty coves kept them occupied.
Outside of those obligations, Sorrow hadn’t been interested in where Envy went, what he did, or with whom. Though, word of his popular antics had circulated. He’d always been surrounded by fans and conquests, and he’d been a regular fixture at sex pageants and oral fests.
Yeah. Not Sorrow’s thing.
Aside from training, she had preferred to be a hermit while occasionally enjoying some laughs with Love and Wonder. Even after they left to serve the human realm, shared secrets had been infrequent among their crew, and virtually nonexistent between Sorrow and Envy.
Really, they had only begun to connect after Love and Andrew’s story. As such, Sorrow has no clue what to make of Envy’s statement.
His secret? Since when?
Envy’s expression is one of pure and utter reverence.
At the sight, a tight sensation grips Sorrow’s womb.
It’s a queer feeling she hasn’t been privy to before, unlike the familiar salt of tears, the cello-like strum of loneliness, and the coarseness of grief.
But this foreign reaction, she hasn’t been educated to identify.
It seizes her stomach, and she doesn't know how to get rid of it.
Somehow, the inexplicable disturbance has to do with his countenance, his features reminiscent of a giddy child. A happy soul.
She shouldn’t like the visual of him joyous, the sentimentality of it. Besides, what did he call her on the boat? A black cloud? A pessimistic killjoy?
Well, at least she’s authentic. At least reality doesn’t skew her judgement, compromise her foresight, or sugarcoat her hopes.
Anyhow. According to Envy, another name for secret is refuge.
“A secret refuge,” Sorrow criticizes. “As if you couldn’t get any more self-serving.”
Envy knocks his shoulder against hers. “Do I detect the tang of jealousy?”
“Like hell would I do you that favor. What’s the purpose of this place? To host exclusive orgies? As if I’d have bent over backward for an invite to one of those.”
“I didn’t host such commonplace affairs here,” Envy dismisses while scanning the vicinity. “I was a guest at everyone else’s.” Ignoring Sorrow’s snort of derision, he adds absently, “And I’ve never brought any lovers here.”
Yet again, his reply clutches an uncharted place in her stomach, but she smothers that reaction before it reaches her brain.
No sense in letting that confession go to her head.
She may be the exception, the rare ex-lover whom he’s brought to this hideaway, however that’s because they’re on the run and need a place to rest. Which is impossible considering the perfectly functional vessel located near the entrance.
“We can’t stay here,” Sorrow cautions.
“Nonsense,” Envy revokes. “Of course, we can.”
“The boat—”
“Is mine.”
That’s all he says before swimming across the lagoon and hoisting himself onto the footpath encircling the water.
Sorrow hesitates, then paddles after him and sloshes onto the bank, where she drips all over the vegetation. “Care to fill me in?”
“Let’s call this my happy place,” he tells her.
“We don’t need to rest that long.”
“I was thinking a few days.”
“Not a chance. That’s the dumbest—”
A pained hiss slides off Envy’s tongue, similar to the noises he’s been making since Sorrow’s near-drowning. As she leans over to see what’s wrong, he twists away with a grunt. “It’s nothing.”
Typical God. “It’s not nothing. You’re shaking,” she persists.
“Rubbish,” he says. “I’m flexing my muscles to their best advantage.”
“And for once, you look like shit. You’re as pale as an onion.”
Envy tries to shoo Sorrow away as she wrestles his hand from his abdomen.
Lifting his shirt, she gasps at the welts marring his torso, the contusions puddling across his ribcage, and the disjointed grid of bones beneath.
Three fractured ribs. So that’s why he’d been laboring through the swim.
Unreasonable male! He should have said something and let her help him.
Envy yanks the shirt down. “Do you mind? I’d rather not showcase my ugly to the universe.”
“All this time,” Sorrow lectures. “All the way here!”
“Oh, leave the dramatics to Merry. So the rapids were a tad aggressive when I dove after you. A rogue wave might have gotten in the way.”
“You shouldn’t have carried Nostalgia! Lifting is the worst thing you can do in this state. And how the hell did you swim like that?”
Sorrow reaches out to assist him, but he smacks her wrist away like a priss. “Did I have a choice?” Now that they’re on solid ground, he’s shutting down fast, his large body swaying. “Last but never least, I’m the God of Envy.”
For crying out loud. Yes, smashing into a tidal wave will pulverize a human but only nick a deity. And sure, immortal wounds heal faster. But not in a few hours. Human anatomies need about six weeks to mend. For a god, it’ll take three days, which means he’s useless until then.
“You’re in no condition to strut around like a peacock,” she admonishes.
“Stars almighty,” Envy grits out, spasming again. “I towed you through rapids and our old stomping grounds. I transferred Nostalgia from one pier to another. I swam here without assistance. I think I can make it the last twenty feet into the fucking cavern.”
His frame teeters. Sorrow catches him, the weight of all that muscle threatening to overturn them. Looping her arm around his waist, they hobble inside.
“I’m fine, dammit,” he mumbles, his mane spilling over his chest. “All I need… is a change… of outfit.”
“Get your hand off my ass,” Sorrow hisses as they lumber across the threshold. Honestly, it’s not his fault. He’s already checked out, his reserves officially drained. Thus, he can’t control where his fingers land.
Lacy vines tremble from overhead. Upon entering the cavern, Sorrow curses every romance novel in existence.
Stunning doesn’t begin to describe the cavern.
Her feet sink into a soft carpet of moss sprouting, with a lustrous stream carving through.
Instead of scabrous, the arched walls are smooth with banners of fine cloth dyed in gem colors looping from the concave ceiling.
A set of upholstered chairs, plus an array pillows and cushions, front an intricately carved hearth embedded into the nearest wall, while other hollows lead to adjacent alcoves.
Envy had called this a refuge. Evidently, he’d conjured these details, customizing them to his preferences. The water, flames, and walls give off enough ambient light, yet Sorrow casts about for a practical source. Focusing on the taper candles situated within recesses, she beseeches The Stars.
In response, the wicks flare, illuminating her bedraggled clothes.
Her ankle-length skirt and vest are intact, although she’d sacrificed her boots in order to swim.
Similarly, Envy’s unshod toes poke out from under the tattered hem of his slacks.
At some point, he must have relinquished them to the sea.
She glimpses his profile, with its patrician nose and crimped brows. He’s debating whether to nurse his shattered ribs first or replace his attire. The choice should be obvious, but this is Envy.
If she makes a suggestion between the two options, he’ll ignore it. If she demands his cooperation, he’ll whine. If she gives a shit, he’ll hold it against her.
This. This is why they have zero in common.
Love and Andrew. Anger and Merry. Wonder and Malice.
They’re partners who respect each other. Yet they think some legend about two deities choosing lust over love will bring Sorrow and Envy together. They believe it will change this battle.
That can’t be right. It has to be another pairing.
Envy stumbles, nearly taking her with him.
Sorrow hunkers the pigheaded male to the mossy floor, his body sprawling like a drunken merman, all whipcord skin and sinew.
Broad pecs inflating with each heavy respiration, muscles bulging from his arms, more cobbled abs than a priceless statue, and a narrow waist that leads to the most skilled cock she’s ever ridden.
Damn him. Tingles rush across the crease between Sorrow’s thighs.
And damn her too. This is no time for her pussy to fall off the wagon, especially not when he’s in this present state. For pity’s sake, sometimes the urges of deities have the worst timing.
Beside him, Sorrow squats and braces her palms on her thighs. “You have a lot of explaining to do, Mister.”
“Best to get you out of those wet clothes first,” he mumbles.
A traitorous chuckle skips off her tongue. She compresses her lips to stop the impulse, but it’s too late. Her mirth slips through the cracks, foreign and humiliating. He was always good at provoking a laugh from her, even if she never gave in, never showed it, never let him know.
Yet this time, this asshole notices the slip. His tired mouth crooks as he listens to the sound, his eyes drifting closed. “I’ve waited thousands of years for that.”
He’s delirious. He didn’t mean it.
Meanwhile, the flutter in Sorrow’s chest is an illusion. A farce meant for sentimental beings like Merry, bless her sweet soul.
The only truth Sorrow knows for certain is they’re not going anywhere.
For three days, they’re stuck with each other.