Chapter 14 Sorrow
Sorrow
His inflated head whips to the side. The wet clap of a waterfall hitting a nearby pool punctuates the momentum between Sorrow’s hand and Envy’s face, his sculpted torso jerking from the impact, the sharp motion visibly aggravating his wound.
Envy hisses as though Sorrow’s knocked him out of alignment. And good. If she struck him that hard, maybe it would reorder his brain chemistry. Or at least pull a few of his interconnected muscles to the point where he’ll experience impotency for a solid century.
By the time the miserable fucker has got his noggin screwed back on, she’s already torching a lethal path through the foliage and out of the cul-de-sac, feminine rage accelerating her speed.
Pebbles crunch beneath her bare feet, and damp soil stains the flannel hem of her pants.
Striking across the pathway, Sorrow berates herself.
Despite the gratification of putting a blemish on his face, she should know better than to trust her visceral responses to this god. It’s never led her anywhere productive.
Yet they’d been having such an amiable time together. At some point, they moved past the discomfort, and she allowed herself to get carried away. Sorrow would go so far as to describe this evening as magical, with its lush lagoon and effortless conversation.
Drumroll. She’d had fun.
After their discussion loosened her reserve, she had been game to see where this disarray took them.
Envy said things she hadn’t expected, dispelling myths about himself.
Normally, Sorrow would celebrate this revelation, if only to verify there’s a soul behind the bullshit.
Though tonight, it had plagued her for reasons unknown.
All the same, he’d reconfirmed other facts. If that overweening male knows anything, it’s how to seduce a conquest. Likewise, how to piss them off.
He had ruined this night. Worse, Sorrow helped him do it. If anything, she should have dismissed his rebuttal rather than flying off the handle, as if his opinion matters.
It doesn’t. Like hell does Sorrow give an immortal fuck about his judgements and assumptions.
Really, she should have slapped herself, not him. She should have kicked her own ass for letting her guard down, for believing they could spend a single civilized night in the same proximity.
He’d smelled like dark rum and amber.
With a growl, Sorrow hurls out her arms, beating aside the shrubs.
His stench is immaterial, a ploy for the weak who think being a garden-variety dickhead increases the sex appeal of heroes.
In her estimation, the more despicable a person behaves, the uglier they get.
A chiseled jaw, a pair of full lips, a cock more sought after than the Holy Grail, and a six-pack that deserves its own empire haven’t a prayer of amending that.
Over the generations, Sorrow remained conscious of Envy’s extreme looks, his handsomeness more a fact than a source of arousal.
She’s grown accustomed to his immaculate face.
As such, she will not fall victim to his crap.
Not after the hunky, godly fucker criticized her, seeking to invalidate her worth.
That’s the deal breaker of all deal breakers.
And yes, she’s cognizant of the irony.
Tendrils of mist rise from the depression to her left. Condensation floats within beams of starlight, creating a shimmering prism effect.
While admiring the sight, Sorrow takes another step. Then the ground opens up and swallows her.