Chapter 11 Envy #2
She might as well have jammed a dozen needles into his skin, each stab deeper than the previous one. “Well, well,” Envy jeers. “You’re all talk tonight. You think you have me pegged. Except what if I told you this isn’t a new idea for me?”
Sorrow wipes her hands. “Sure, you might know this. You might even fess up to it. But are you going to face it?”
“Are you?” he throws back. “Are you going to confront all this self-awareness? Or are you just going to sit there and eat all my food?”
Despite herself, Sorrow bites back another grin, yet again denying him the rare visual. “Some host you are.”
“Hey!” he banters. “I’m a superb host. I don’t care what you say.”
The goddess snorts with mirth. Her teasing alleviates Envy’s bitterness, the quick gleam in her irises easing the blow of what she’d said. Though indeed, this only proves her point that he uses wit to mollify any darker inclinations.
Sorrow peeks at him. “By the way, thank you. For not letting me drown.”
Envy stares at her, thunderstruck. “I wish I’d gotten that on video.”
When a muffled laugh tumbles out of the goddess, he considers it an encouragement. Might as well take advantage of the thaw. “I refuse to believe you’re immune. Come now, I’m bored and need distraction from my wound. Tell Illustrious Envy, and he promises there will be no bonding.”
“Tell you what?”
“Your pleasure, of course.” Envy soaks up her gaze like an addict. “What’s your pleasure?”
She hesitates. Perhaps this goddess is thinking what he’s thinking.
Miraculously, they’re having a civilized discussion, and it’s too late to turn back.
The suggestion—among many suggestions tonight—has tripped out of him.
Now that they’ve started talking, he can’t keep his fucking mouth shut.
Not especially when a full-blown laugh from Sorrow has become a real possibility, the prospect dangling before him like a temptation.
Nonetheless, Sorrow fidgets, the dark lacquer of her fingernails chipped in certain areas. “I don’t know what I like.”
“That’s preposterous.” Envy would chuckle in disbelief, but he’s not in the mood to get smacked. “Very well. I never object to going first.”
“You can’t say fashion or fucking.”
Goddammit. “Fine. You can’t say black taffeta or witchcraft. That’s—”
“Getting. Really. Old.”
“I disagree. As to my fancies.” Envy clears his throat and impersonates a maudlin romantic. “I like long walks on the beach.”
Sorrow compresses her lips. “Nice try.”
Yes, it was. And it worked, because there’s that cusp of a smile.
She conceals the grin, stashing it away like a secret. Envy is stunned that he’s come remotely this close to witnessing the phenomenon. Stunned and proud. It’s a ridiculous achievement, even more so that he considers it an achievement at all.
Yet he wants to try again, and again, and potentially again. More than once, she’s been on the verge of letting it out, so why not make that his new mission in life?
When he prompts the goddess to speak first instead, Sorrow wrinkles her nose. Another thing Envy wants is to see her features relax, to smooth out the grout lines in her countenance, so that she can’t hide.
Physically, he’d made an effort with her once before. Sex aside, it’s a different experience to engage with her mentally, intellectually, and personally. He has an itch, which he’s hellbent on scratching. If Sorrow has trouble identifying her pleasures, he’ll push her out of that comfort zone.
Measuring his words, he persuades the goddess to consult her memories, the tastes that she’s never forgotten, the ones she returns to whenever she’s in a particular mood, the ones that stimulate or soothe her without fail.
And before they know it, a pair of chalices fill their hands, a rich liquid sloshing from within.
Envy’s pulse skips. Without looking closely or smelling the contents, a guess formulates on his tongue.
“Currant nectar,” he says without preamble.
Sorrow blinks, suspicion crimping her eyebrows. “How did you…”
Making a show of nonchalance, he lifts one shoulder. “Saw you take a swig once. You took your sweet time, as if you were downing some artisanal brew.”
Bullshit. Yes, it’s the truth but only half.
Envy has seen her partake of this drink precisely two hundred and fourteen times during feasts and revels.
Because also yes, he’d been paying attention.
Just as he knows every article of clothing in Sorrow’s closet, down to the trimmings and hardware, each garment a different shade of black or grey.
Essentially, currant nectar is juice. Despite guessing right, Envy has always balked at the commonplace choice, tempted to question her about it. Finally, he’s getting an exclusive peek into this female’s psyche.
Still, any feasible reaction escapes him as Sorrow’s irises do something weird, freakish, and spectacular: They light the fuck up.
Those rings of color—the pigment of tears—brightens. Licking her lips, she tips back the vessel and chugs like a pump. A deep and resonant sound curls from her throat, as if she’s guzzling a flute of champagne.
Envy’s mind detours along with his groin, the stem thickening and shoving against the front of his pants. With supreme effort, he warns the troublemaker to behave as she explains herself.
The nectar is a “comfort drink.” Envy is familiar with the human term. He’s just never associated it with her tongue.
That rosy, wet tongue.
He shakes himself once more, listening avidly as she describes the tart-but-sugary quality of the drink and the refreshing sharpness of its aftertaste.
No matter how curious he’d been over the years about this penchant, Envy had resisted the urge to sample it.
As trite as it sounds, he’d wanted Sorrow’s description, her impression more than his own.
Sorrow sighs in contentment. “As soothing as a fleece blanket.” When confusion pulls across Envy’s face, she motions to his chalice. “For Fate's sake, just try it.”
When he does, the effect is striking. The nectar is a delicious balance between sweet and earthy. He takes another gulp, then another, draining the chalice.
“That wasn’t vile,” he concedes.
She gives him a nod of approval. “How’s that for pleasure?”
Envy sets down the empty vessel and swings toward her fully. “What else?”
They experiment. Sorrow enchants a barrage of mortal comfort food, such as stews, pies, and casseroles. He joins her as she samples the choices mindfully, each of them rating the pleasure-factors of every option.
Sorrow’s top picks include meatballs and mashed potatoes. Her enthusiasm about it is… cute. Though, the currant nectar remains her favorite.
Envy studies the goddess’s flushed countenance. He can’t decide if it makes him uncomfortable, or if this feeling is reminiscent of her precious drink. Satisfying. Refreshing.
Sorrow catches him watching her. When he doesn’t look away, she averts her gaze and rubs both biceps as if there’s a chill. “What I wouldn’t give for a walk right now.”
“Would that please you?” he jokes.
She gives him a dry look of concession. “Very well, you’ve made your point. The Goddess of Sorrow takes pleasure in some things. Happy?”
Elated. “Only if you are.”
“Since when do you care?”
Excellent question. “It’s been a long journey. Let’s agree that I’m not myself these days. Frankly, neither are you, especially in that outfit.”
Sorrow mumbles to herself. Is it Envy’s imagination, or is he developing a fondness for her grouchy disposition?
Is there anyone in this realm capable of breaking down that wall? Anyone who would be her exception? Who would always succeed in disarming her?
If he doesn’t speak, this night will end. If that happens, they’ll revert back to mutual discord.
This female anomaly would like to go for a walk. Envy could do with one as well, so long as he’s vigilant about his injury.
Besides. While a stroll would be adventurous with a lover, it’s strictly practical with this goddess.
Right. It’s settled.
Envy dares to flick her pajama sleeve with the tip of his finger. “I know a place.”