Chapter 19
Sorrow
Before she can respond, Envy leaves without a backward glance. For minutes on end, Sorrow stands motionless. The candles glow, and firelight tints the cavern in a brilliant sheen, each source kindling for as long as desired.
Has it only been two days? Is tomorrow really the final one?
When was the last time Sorrow asked about his ribs? When was the last time Envy gave her a status report?
His wincing has declined, and the bruises across his torso have faded. Visibly, he’s on the brink of recovery. Whereas Sorrow is not okay. Her stumped gaze blurs, the contents of her brain jumbling together, and she’s pretty certain her jaw has landed somewhere on the ground.
“What did you just say?” she whispers to no one.
Specifically, to the one who’d been standing there not long ago. Yes, she’s late finding the words. As to his confession, the words had sounded as though they’d wiped him out. It certainly was having that effect on her.
At this point, Sorrow’s been tarrying in a daze for long enough. Envy’s probably snoring by now. Either way, it’s more productive to think of him emitting those gritty noises instead of envisioning the god sprawling naked on his bed.
His muscles contracting with each respiration. Those masculine, throaty rumbles. His mouth at her disposal.
How deeply does he sleep? Does his cock tighten in slumber?
Sorrow groans. If she had stuck around longer after their smut fests, she might have witnessed the unconscious rhythm of his breathing and the rippling contractions of his torso.
She hadn’t bothered paying attention to these facets while camping in enemy terrain with the crew.
Back then, Sorrow had kept her bedroll as far from Envy as possible.
Okay. She needs to put a stopper into this emotional upheaval. Right now.
Idling on the bedroom threshold, Sorrow wheels toward her chamber. Then she halts, blinking through a haze of shock. The sight before her must be a hallucination or a hoax.
Either that, or this is real. Fleece blankets cover the bed, across from which a stack of shelves hold multiple lamps with pull chains.
Sorrow’s heart trips over itself, confusion slowing her pace as she tiptoes inside. Atop the mattress, a garment rests across the blankets. Swallowing, Sorrow runs her fingers over the black, hooded robe. It’s the softest cotton she has ever encountered, the type of fabric that might dance on air.
The last touch is a glass of currant nectar, propped on a table beside the bed.
Sorrow should feel dubious, since it’s not the first time he’s pranked her. Yet the considerate details lay those doubts to rest.
This is nice. More than that, it’s thoughtful.
While beseeching The Stars, Envy had gotten everything right. He’d remembered.
When has a deity done something like this for her? Something this selfless, without an agenda?
Typical Sorrow would call this weird. So fucking weird. But she’d passed so fucking weird about five conversations ago.
Now, Sorrow is simply worn out and overwhelmed. Maybe she’s also a tad bashful, as it takes several attempts to touch anything, her fingers reaching out before lurching backward.
Closing the door and stripping off the pajamas, she musters the courage to wrap herself in the robe. The material caresses her skin, the tailored measurements an exact fit, seeming less conjured by magic and more handmade.
Sorrow sips the juice with indulgence, the essence of tart berries soaking into her tongue. Moving with tentativeness, she sinks beneath the sheets, a sigh floating from her lips.
Unfortunately, the reprieve doesn’t last. Hours pass, during which she tosses and turns, obscenities crowding her mouth like gravel. Her mind races, doing a mad, sacrificial sprint back to that moment.
Back to that thing he said. That thing he admitted.
You intimidate me.
Is this why he never got sensual with her? Is it the true reason he’s never tried to seduce Sorrow in the past? Because she intimidates him?
Dismayed and unsure how to digest his confession, she drags her sorry ass out of bed, unravels her hair bun, and combs through the tangles.
An embellishment she’d once admired comes to mind.
The painted eyelids akin to liquid liner, worn by a young male deity in the valley forest, one of the children who attacked her and the crew.
Inspired, Sorrow invokes a similar flourish, except the liner is pigmented in blue. Just a hint. Just to see. Twisting toward a full-length mirror, she appraises the effect, her lips tilting in appreciation. So this is what it feels like to add color to her face.
Using additional magic, Sorrow refills her glass, then drifts into the main cavern. From there, she wanders to the lagoon. Leaning her hip against the vine-draped entrance, she takes in the tranquil water, secluded vegetation, and surrounding footpath.
Constellations twinkle, dotting the pool with light. She inhales deeply—and a glass shatters from behind.
Sorrow whirls. Envy’s silhouette stands arrested, his hair cinched at the nape, the silk pants replaced with a new, loose pair.
The plains of his bare torso flex with every outtake, about ten-thousand abs climb down his lower frame like stones in a riverbed, and the slump of his waistline accentuates a steep set of hip bones.
Shards from a fluted glass litter the ground by his feet.
As his eyes rake across her body, Sorrow recalls her neckline gaping down to the navel, exposing a ravine of flesh and the crescent shadows of her breasts.
Worse, her nipples have ruched against the night breeze, the tips pinching through the material.
There’s that, in addition to her unbound hair and blue-lined eyes. The evident attempt to spruce herself up, as if she’s trying to impress him.
Sorrow yanks on the sash. She debates whether to flop the hood over her head as well. Not that it would make a difference. Envy’s gaze shutters, disorder crowding his face and nailing her to the spot.
Self-preservation gets her moving. She takes a cautious step backward while gesturing to the vestment. “I appreciate the robe. But for the record, wearing it has nothing to do with you.”
His dilated pupils jump from her curves to her face. “I may be clueless when it comes to the Goddess of Sorrow, but I’m shrewd enough to know none of your actions have ever had to do with me.”
Her eyebrows punch together. “Meaning what?”
“Meaning I’m never the cause. Just the obstacle.”
“Is that bitterness, I hear? Well, sorry if I’ve rarely ever woken up thinking, ‘Gee. How can I rearrange my life for him today?’”
“No, but you’ve certainly rearranged your morals, as well as your bodily positions, to accommodate my cock.”
Her blood percolates. Evidently, his assholery knows no bounds.
Here, Sorrow had been preparing to thank Envy for what he did to her chamber. Instead, gratitude flakes to ash on her tongue.
Never mind how wrong he is. Never mind that Sorrow’s actions over their history have been provoked by him more than she’d care to admit. And never fucking mind how his comment cuts to the quick, at odds with the hospitable god who outfitted her sleeping quarters with such care.
Sarcasm. Acrimony.
Well, fine. She can handle that. They’ve had more practice with those sentiments anyway.
“Huh.” Sorrow folds her arms. “I’ll counter by pointing out that our raunchy affair was for my benefit, not yours.
As you accurately described it, I used our trysts to get the randiness out of my system.
It wasn’t about intimacy. Fucking you has always been a cheap solution to external frustrations. ”
Envy’s pupils alight like furnaces. She can’t tell if it’s rage, offense, or something more dangerous.
You intimidate me.
There it is again. That thing he’d said.
It had hurt when Envy made callous assumptions about their fling. Mainly because he’d been right. At least, in the beginning.
Not that Sorrow had expected Envy to interpret it differently. He might not know how to internalize pain, but he sure as fuck knows how to cause it. Plenty of memories have proven this, regardless of how Sorrow had affected him in kind.
Agitation crawls up her spine. Meanwhile, Envy stews in silence, observing Sorrow from the darkest corner of the living room, the notion out of character for him. This god never passes up an opportunity to exercise his vocal cords, to be heard and seen, to have the last word.
Sorrow dumps her hands into the robe pockets, juts out her chin, and lays it on thicker than oil. “The universe might salivate over you, but if you had tried seduction with me, your dick would have rusted before you succeeded.”
Envy’s affronted features scrunch like a wad of paper. “And what about the enclave pool when you bounced so enthusiastically against my cock, it threatened to shear off a layer of foreskin?”
“That was…” She makes a show of shrugging. “It was fatigue.”
“You didn’t sound fatigued. Upon graphic reflection, I recall you howling like a she-wolf in heat.”
“I almost died and was too worn out to speed things up, much less to deny you.”
“Deny. Me,” he repeats through a set of canines.
“Deny you,” Sorrow confirms with an airiness she doesn’t feel. “You were so eager to prove yourself, remember? Besides, I required a quick fix. It was only for my benefit.”
No, it wasn’t. What happened in the enclave wasn’t just about her. For once, they hadn’t been copulating out of convenience.
Yet Sorrow’s mouth keeps moving, fueled by recollections too gut-wrenching to admit. Ultimately, it’s easier to be spiteful than wounded. This vicious waltz, she’d perfected generations ago with him.
“Pride gods,” she reflects. “You’re all the same, in need of constant pandering.”
With a hiss, Envy whips around. Through the murk, he stalks over a pile of glass shards and into the tunnels.
Sorrow startles. Where is he going? It’s not supposed to be that simple.
Well, great. She told him off. She showed him. She gave him what he was asking for. She—
Fuck. Fuck, he’s changing his mind. He’s not leaving. He’s charging back to her, thrusting his fingers through his hair, ruining that fantastic mane. And oh shit, he’s not stopping. Fuck, fuck, fuck!
With a shout, Sorrow breaks from her spot. Like prey, she bolts across the cavern as if someone has lit dynamite to her heels, skirting Envy’s arm as it lashes out to catch her.
Yelping, she jets into the nearest corridor. It’s the wrong direction, but it’s too late to turn back.
Mid-dash, she whips her head over her shoulder.
Envy’s pounding across the chasm like a pissed-off grizzly bear, closing the distance, ailing ribs be damned.
If her parting shot has injured him, the god doesn’t reveal it.
Rather, the ambitious look on his face is neither friendly, nor playful.
The only suitable term is carnivorous, his features narrowing like a predator hunting a target.
That hell-bent expression is a straight shot to the clit. Frustration scorches a path up her thighs, the tight slit of her cunt throbbing, wrath-induced arousal breaking the folds wide open.
Sorrow’s pulse hammers against her chest. Anticipation thrashes beneath her breasts like a caged animal.
Sprinting into the alcove where he stores those fashion renderings, Sorrow backtracks, passing her chamber.
Grasping a corner wall, she catapults around the bend, barreling into Envy’s wardrobe alcove just as he storms inside behind her.
They leave the space in shambles, shirts and belts flying off shelves, wall hooks littering the floor.
Everlasting Fates! If he doesn’t give a fuck about the wardrobe’s state, that means shit has gotten real.
Speeding into his bedroom, Sorrow leaps across the mattress, then hustles back toward the entrance. Envy shoots after her, aiming to cut her off at the pass, but she dodges his swinging arm.
Reaching the main cavern, Sorrow hotfoots over discarded cushions and flings a set of chairs in his path, which he whips aside with a backward swat of his hands. At this rate, she wouldn’t blame an outsider for mistaking this for some destructive mating ritual.
Clamping a hand over her mouth, Sorrow muffles a laugh. The repressed noise must reach Envy’s ears, which spurs him to move faster.
Okay, then. It’s indeed possible to feel thrilled, terrified, and horny at the same time.
Sorrow one hundred percent knows what this is. And what shall happen if Envy gets his hands on her.
While pounding across the expanse, she bats the hair from her eyes, her gaze landing on the one and only saving grace. The boat!
She flees past the threshold. Scrambling into the tethered vessel, Sorrow yanks on the cord with such force that it snaps. There’s a pole similar to the one from the star-shaped vessel that carried them through the rapids, except this shaft towers at the prow instead of the center.
Amped up on stress hormones, Sorrow twists the column, light glinting from the vessel as it shears across the lagoon.
Easing up on the lever slows down the conveyance, providing balance while still moving quickly enough to ditch Envy, who halts at the rocky base and hisses like a steam-powered locomotive.
On a whim, Sorrow flashes her middle digit and mouths, “Aloha, motherfucker.”
The god scowls. Then he’s gone, diving in despite his ribs and torpedoing after her.