Chapter 10 Envy
Envy
Sateen blankets. Luscious. Glorious.
The bedding glides over his skin, caressing the perfect lattice of his abs, which he possesses in abundance. With a hum, Envy rolls onto his back, savoring the heavenly brush of the material.
Vaguely, he has the presence of mind to deduce another fact.
He’s garbed in nothing but sleeping pants woven of a similar textile, as fluid as water.
Silk pants. Based on how the fabric kisses his thighs, it’s been sewn from a deep, glossy gulf.
The garment’s richness also indicates an enchanted quality, achievable only in this realm.
The greater enigma is the mossy bed spanning beneath his weight. Stretching his arms like a panther, Envy notes other perplexities. A lush pillow cradles his head, though he usually sleeps with a minimum of six, preferring the indulgent lavishness of such comforts.
His bare chest contracts with each breath. Familiar spices perfume the atmosphere, and the echo of droplets trickle from nearby.
Envy’s eyes whip open to a cavern dappled in warm shadows. He lurches upright, grinding his knuckles into his eyes.
In the Astral Sea, his house contains industrious but luxurious ornamentations. Linen bedding. Plush sofas and mirrors. Bolts of jacquard, damask, toile, houndstooth, and leather. Pelts of fur and spools of yarn.
This isn’t his house. Envy’s head veers sideways, absorbing the taper candles set into recesses, the wicks twitching with flames, luminescence sprinkling the walls.
His refuge, the other end of which resides…
Hope filters through him. When? How?
Envy consults his fractured memory. But it’s the actual fractures that rouse him fully, his ribcage constricting, pain gripping his consciousness. He seethes, resting his palm against the ladder of bones covered in strips of gauze.
Wicked clarity returns. Needing a moment to regroup, he claws through his mane, the infernal layers snarled from the journey here. It’s going to take him a while to tame the mess, particularly by his standards. To say the least, he’d have an easier time shaving a fucking warthog.
Envy audits more details. The interior stream.
The hearth. The pillows, cushions, and upholstered chairs.
The cloth banners looping from the ceiling.
Upon periodic returns to The Dark Fates, Envy would often retire here, deeming it his private sanctuary.
But after being ostracized, he hadn’t anticipated seeing it again.
Presently, he relishes this moment, which alleviates the agonizing pangs of his injury. Yet he can’t recall tucking himself in, nor disrobing, nor dressing his wounds.
An ominous presence infiltrates the moment, a grim and sinister essence disturbing the atmosphere. He senses evil nearby, reeking of pessimism and misery.
Envy curls his nose. He peers around, searching for a horrible outfit and unkempt hair the shade of anguish.
The cavern’s threshold extends to a lagoon.
His gaze lands on a figure perched at the water’s edge, where the bank rises higher, producing a natural rim.
Settled there, the goddess's profile consults the dome of stars and planets.
Her tresses quiver in the breeze, and her skirt puddles around her thighs, enabling her limbs to dip into the pool.
Sorrow.
The grumpy goddess is here, infesting his refuge. For no apparent reason, the vision sends a prickle across his shoulder blades. She should look out of place, yet she doesn’t appear that way. In fact, there’s something appealing about Sorrow ensconced in his domain, surrounded by All Things Envy.
He shakes his head. Something must be wrong with him. For whatever reason, he can’t stop staring at this morose female.
Though, it wouldn’t be the first time. Since their youth, he’d been dealing with this unhealthy obsession, frequently stealing glances at Sorrow when she hadn’t been looking. To this day, Envy has no clue why he expels so many reserves antagonizing her, like a perverse addiction.
Damnation. Of all the immortals to be sequestered with. At least, the goddess had opted to nurse instead of hex him while he slept.
Yet fuck. Why her? Why is it always her?
Despite millennia of interactions, plus one doomed fling, it’s hardly unusual that he knows so little about Sorrow.
Apart from the basics, at least. While the same rule applies to numerous other sex partners on his roster, none of the gods and goddesses he’s fucked have ever provoked him.
None have ever crawled under his skin, nor been unimpressed with Envy, even after their lust faze began.
He grimaces. He must be drowsy if he’s making little sense.
Outside the cavern, his tethered boat floats in the lagoon. Beyond that, a sliver of water reveals the inlet from which they’d traveled.
It’s eventide, the constellations chipping at the hemisphere. According to a rumored myth among his people, The Stars will shine their brightest when a deity asks for the truth. But a deity will only receive the truth if they’re ready to hear the answer.
There’s another condition attached to the myth, but Envy’s too lazy to review it.
He supposes a declaration of gratitude is in order. Not that Sorrow wants such a thing from Envy, or that she’s ever wanted anything of substance from him. That is, aside from his cock.
Really, he can’t blame her for that. He possesses a glorious cock.
Envy sweeps the blanket aside. Gaining his feet, he saunters to the threshold, careful not to exacerbate his ribs as he leans against the frame. The instant he does, Sorrow tenses from scalp to ass.
“Sexy view,” he murmurs, his husky voice rumpled from slumber.
Sorrow purses her lips. She kicks her legs through the pool, waves swatting a rocky outcropping. “Flattery will get you nowhere.”
As if it ever has with her. Not when it’s come to anything meaningful.
“I meant the lagoon,” Envy clarifies blandly, savoring the chagrined flush that stains her cheeks. For good measure, and perhaps out of genuine curiosity, he adds, “Even if I’d been referring to you, do you even know how to take a compliment?”
“You’re welcome for the bandage, by the way.”
“Much obliged, by the way.”
Nothing but her signature grunt. They’d gotten here at dawn, which means he spent the day blacked out. She must be exhausted from their trip as well.
“The cavern has plenty of alcove chambers,” he invites.
“I’m not tired,” she lies. “I tried but can’t sleep.”
Look at me.
She won’t do it. That’s not her style. During the one-hundred-fifty-and-a-half times they’d gotten pornographic—yes, one-hundred-fifty-and-a half, the latter due to a broken bed frame that interrupted the fun—not once had she looked at him for longer than necessary.
The residual sting of resentment snaps at his vertebrae like a rubber band.
He shouldn’t say it. Really, he shouldn’t.
But he does. “Can’t sleep? Sorrow, I’ve told you before. The monster under your bed is just a mirror.”
Her head lances toward him. “Well, you own enough of them to know, so I trust your judgement. What?”
There’s that look. That direct look.
Her eyes on him. Her attention, all his.
Those metallic irises flash like supernovas, their radiance soaking into his pores. With the potency of an illicit drug, the effect sends a charge through Envy’s blood, the influx rushing to his dick and flooding his balls.
That is, until an unexpected detail consumes his gaze. She’s not wearing her customary, melodramatic outfit. Instead, Sorrow has chosen an ensemble that mentally knocks him on his ass.
As he struggles to process the flannel getup, Sorrow’s eyes widen in realization. The garments are a mortal style, with clouds printed on them. Fluffy little clouds the likes of which only one fully-grown, immortal soul would don with a straight face.
“Those are Merry’s pajamas,” he balks.
“So what if they are?” Sorrow defends.
“Why did you enchant Merry’s pajamas?”
“Several months ago, before we set out to conquer the world, she hosted an all nighter—”
“To which I was not invited?” Envy asks with mock offense.
“It was for goddesses only. Regardless, I loathe such parties,” Sorrow confides.
“They’re nothing but an excuse to stuff your intestines with cake and paint each other’s toenails some shade called Kismet, so everything stinks of acetone, plus you have to sleep in the same room.
And don’t get me started on the mock-battles, in which participants are forced to use pillows instead of actual weapons.
Seriously, where’s the fun if you’re not drawing blood? ”
“I never pegged you for someone who enjoys blood play. To my everlasting regret, we never tried it.” But when she doesn’t rise to the bait, he inquires, “Are we talking about the human or non-human versions of overnight soirees?”
“The Merry Version. Music played from a record that never seemed to end, we challenged each other to see who could conceive the most ridiculous sleepwear in history, and there was all this… this talk about feelings, and ‘fate this’ and ‘free will that,’ and ‘my soulmate’ and ‘your soulmate.’” Sorrow frowns at Envy, those eyes two sharp, silver droplets in her face. “Well? Aren’t you going to stop me?”
“And miss this rare opportunity to hear you complain?”
“All that bonding swoonery.”
Bonding swoonery. His mouth twitches.
Sauntering into the fresh air, Envy contemplates the empty spot beside her, then changes his mind and sidesteps Sorrow. At the adjacent end of the lagoon, he lounges across from her, rolling up his pants and submerging his limbs.
Sorrow’s eyes veer from his naked chest. “During the sleepover, I couldn’t think of what to put on. The motorcycle queen got ambitious and charged to her dresser.”
“And you obviously got attached,” Envy concludes.
Sorrow juts her chin toward her skirt and vest, both garments sprawling flat on a boulder jutting from the bank. “My clothes need to dry.”
“You could have manifested an outfit suitable to your witching hour.”
“For your information, I didn’t feel like wearing anything combat-worthy. Not if I was going to try and rest.”
Granted the ensemble would look cute on Merry, it’s wrong for Sorrow.
To correct the matter, visions of her outfitted in lace panties, pashmina corsets, jeweled eye masks, and haute couture bondage crowd Envy’s head like a soft-core silent film.
Or better yet, her body draped in one of his oversized shirts.
Though, the star of the show would be Sorrow in nothing at all, her naked skin feverish with exertion, varnished in sweat, and spread out across his mattress.
Fuck. Envy shifts before his enthusiastic cock has a chance to react. “So this is the best you came up with? Ever heard of chic loungewear?”
“I usually sleep naked,” she announces.
“At last, something we have in common.”
Of its own volition, Sorrow’s gaze skates down his torso as if she wouldn’t mind seeing proof. And fuck him to hell. Because yes, Envy’s impure thoughts also went there seven seconds ago, the confirmation doing nothing to rescue his bloated nether regions.
He pinches the waistband of his low-slung pants. “Rather astute, choosing mulberry silk.”
“It wasn’t hard to gauge,” she says. “Your arrogance has a high thread count.”
“If I have arrogance in my DNA, you’ve got self-deprecation clogging your own. In terms of wardrobe choices, you could have done better for yourself.”
“Get over it. I’ve had other things on my mind than fashion.”
Ah, style block. He’s been a victim of that in the past. Nevertheless, Envy longs to conjure a camera and document this visual. If anything, so he can use it to bribe Sorrow later. She may not care what others think of her, but she won’t want to be reminded of it either.
Moreover, it’s impossible not to smirk. “The clouds are pink.”
“You need to go away,” she sighs.
Envy leans back on his palms. “Need I remind you, this is my refuge?”
“Since when?”
“Since forever. I used to come here often. During my last intermission from the human realm, I spent most of my time in this place. When the period of rest was over, I simply evanesced back to the mortal world from the cavern.”
“Who else knows about it?”
“Other than my Guide? You, hon.”
Sorrow emits a chafed noise, and her legs disturb the lagoon. For a while, they content themselves with silence, listening to the water mop against the bank.
Envy considers the surplus of things she’d just said and takes a wild guess. “The Goddess of Sorrow is cranky because she’s hungry.”
“I lost my appetite at the river,” she retorts. “But if I had wanted food, I’d have fed myself.”
Fine. That said, nourishment requires proper motivation instead of sucking all the positive energy from his abode. It involves nurturing instead of depriving oneself.
Envy audits her clothing on the boulder, his eyes squinting at the pointless stitching needle affixed to her vest. The accessory unnerves him, as if something about her life constantly needs mending. Furthermore, she has never told him the reason for it.
Likely, Love knows the story. And Wonder. And Merry.
But while the thought of Sorrow having confidantes reassures Envy, the notion also plagues him with an emotion he’s all too familiar with.
Envy disregards the stitching needle. “Suit yourself.”
Channeling The Stars, he envisions an alfresco meal, and the divinities answer the call. A woven mat appears, laden with figs, a cheese board, a breadbasket, thin slices of salmon, a platter of crackers and caviar, decadent pastries that ooze with preserves, and a jug of wine.
From her corner, Sorrow surveys the fare. “You forgot the fourteen karat goblets.”
“Would it shock you to discover I drink from the bottle?” Envy inquires, dropping a fig on his tongue, chewing, and swallowing. “Besides, this setup is low maintenance.”
“Except you’re about as low maintenance as cashmere.”
“Cashmere is worth the effort.” Plucking a miniature fig, Envy drapes the fruit onto his tongue, noting how her eyes follow the motion.
Taking advantage of that, he chews the thing to a pulp, his teeth sinking into the flesh.
Then he swallows hard and tilts his head.
“By the way, I’ll give you sixty seconds to take back the comment about not being hungry. ”
Her gaze leaps from his mouth to his eyes. “By the way, you’ll be disappointed.”
“Then I’ll go easy on you and rephrase.” He quirks an eyebrow, the question a challenge more than an invitation. “Care to join me for dinner?”