Chapter 42
Sorrow
Unable to sleep, she flings aside the fleece blanket and stalks out of the house. At the pier’s edge, the sea engulfs the stilts of her home. Sea water trembles, its surface reflecting planets and moons. Lanterns float across the depths, each one brimming with flames.
Sorrow inhales the pure aroma of starlight. She’s never noticed the distinction before, but Andrew was right about the air smelling different in The Dark Fates.
A steady breeze whips Sorrow’s skirt around her legs, the shredded material sweeping over her bare toes. She crosses her arms and rubs her pebbled flesh, although she still has no clue what cold feels like.
Maybe the sensation is due to loneliness. She’s well-versed in that.
Daytime constellations will soon replace the nighttime ones, and the sky will brighten to lapis blue. Sorrow groans, her battle-worn muscles aching. Yet that isn’t what’s keeping her awake. For thousands of years, she’s been fine living alone, rising from slumber without someone beside her.
Is home a dwelling, a landscape, or a realm? Is it eight figures who’ve become family?
Or is it a person?
Strolling along the boardwalk fails to alleviate her insomnia.
To make matters worse, she takes the wrong path and ends up passing Love’s home, then Anger’s residence, then Wonder’s dwelling.
Though they should be wiped out, Sorrow detects the subtle but rapturous sounds drifting through the windows of each structure.
Allegedly, her crew has been celebrating.
Love and Andrew’s chuckles radiate with a post-sex afterglow, the goddess’s bed squeaking in what can only be the echoes of play. Likely, they’re on the verge of chasing one another naked through the house.
The noises coming from Anger and Merry’s love shack harmonize like a song. The god’s tempestuous growl defies his injury, while his soulmate’s rhythmic cries indicate her pussy’s on the receiving end of Anger’s tongue.
And Fates, forget Wonder and Malice. Based on the thrashing sheets, the husky taunts coming from Malice, and the panting moans from Wonder, they’re competing for who can dominate whom, which means they’ll be going at it for a while.
Actually, it all sounds pretty hot.
Sorrow can’t take it. The only place she thinks to go is also the only place she wants to be.
But since it’s not exactly around the corner, she flaps her arms at the next lunar heron that passes by, humbled when the raptor obliges.
Manifesting would be faster, but taking longer buys Sorrow time to get her pulse under control. Besides, she likes the view from above.
Sheepish, she expresses gratitude before hopping on the avian’s back. When the creature deposits Sorrow at her destination, she steps inside a vacant cavern, ingesting the fragrances of dark rum and amber.
That’s when she feels it. The peace, the belonging, and the memories of three isolated days with the last person she’d ever wanted to be stuck with.
Two options. The guest hollow he set up for her, with fleece bedding, a collection of lamps, and that sensual robe, which had made him drop a fluted glass.
Or another room entirely.
Sorrow slips into his empty chamber. Feeling greedy, she crawls into the sheets, linen enveloping her body as she dissolves into blackness. And when she stirs with a grumble, hazy afternoon stars leak through the chasm.
Also, she’s not alone anymore. The mattress sinks beneath a muscled weight, which curls like a shield around her. One arm has slid around Sorrow’s middle, tucking her spine against his chest, while the other rests above her hair, fingers brushing through the roots.
His shirt sleeves are jammed up his forearms, exposing light brown flesh that clashes with her chalky skin. His knees bend into the backs of her own, and a pair of full lips brushes her temple. She knows the contours of his frame, the pacing of his breathing, and the shifts of his clothes.
Tears spring to her eyes. Maybe she has the same effect, because when he speaks, his tone is haggard. “Have I ever told you I’m a fan of shredded skirts? They’re right up there with loafers and ascots.”
Sorrow half-chuckles, half-sniffles. “Have I ever told you that you’re full of shit?”
Envy’s chest rumbles. “That’s the nymph I know and worship.”
“Who said I was your nymph?”
“You did,” he murmurs, that erotic voice oozing affection. “You did in the middle of a star shower, unless my ears were deceiving me.”
Those words. Those three pivotal words she shouted beneath the siege.
He’s right about that, but Sorrow had been unsure what to expect afterward, or whether they would broach the subject. They’ve chosen this, fulfilled the legend. So why is it terrifying to acknowledge?
Envy swallows, his whisper trailing down her earlobe. “How long have you known?”
“I think it happened when you reminded me that I know how to feel a hug,” she confides.
For such a large physique, the god shudders like fletching. “Fuck, Sorrow. All you had to do was say so.”
“When was I supposed to do that? Anyway, what would you have said back?”
“I would have said three fucking millennia worth of things.”
The long-suppressed words crack out of him. He cannot mean…
But then she remembers another telling fact. “Why three millennia instead of only three days?”
Contrite, Envy stalls, his fingers arrested in her hair. “Come now, my nymph. You’re a perceptive spitfire, if there ever was one. Don’t you know?” He tugs her around, those sweltering eyes consuming her features like a life force. “Don’t you know that you’re every emotion I’ve ever felt?”