Page 28 of Torn

As a rage god, he’s retained his temper, which has a distinct effect on others. That part of him is still active like a volcano.

Without a word, Merry communicates that she knows, and that it doesn’t matter, and that it matters so much. He shouldn’t retract any part of himself, doesn’t need to withhold a thing.

Anger processes that. And a miracle happens.

His mouth lifts into a close-mouthed grin. It’s subtle, and it’s presumably rare. But it operates like a generator inside her, turning every vein into a beam, every atom into a bulb, electrifying to the point where her brain is about to experience an outage.

“You have a resplendent smile,” she idolizes.

He wavers. “Merry…I…”

Is this a declaration? Oh, let it be!

The tone of his voice, and the visual of his mouth sculpting her name, is a potent mixture of clammy and surreal.

Anger’s eyes sharpen but not with passion, nor with anything close to desire. No, they morph from that tame lacquer to a shrill ebony while flickering over her shoulder in alarm…in awareness.

Merry catches the sound. A thin and sharp noise splits the air, flying toward them.

The intrusion is unmistakable: an arrow.

8

Merry

The blade cuts through the distance. Its flight happens in slow motion, linear and perfect, like a foul dream or a brilliant nightmare. There’s a hitch in time, a speed bump in which she finds herself canting her head, watching the pointed tip coming toward her.

The weapon has been forged from azurite, a saturated blue scooped from the crusted belly of a mineral. The result is a gorgeous attack, so beautifully lethal that Merry’s fingers lift, eager to feel the weapon’s surface as it lances her way.

A wall of muscle pounds into her side. She smacks into the dirt, threads of grass mashed against her mouth, her vision a kaleidoscope as she tumbles across the knoll, with a masculine weight crushed against her.

Three full revolutions and a sudden curb causes them to stop. Merry lands on her back and gawks at the shock of stars. They’re flickering like mad, like a short circuiting installation.

Her gaze shifts to Anger, who’s on top of her, his pectorals squishing her breasts. His eyes probe hers for a second, checking on her. She recovers her senses, the truth refracting in his glare.

Someone just tried to shoot her.

That someone is hammering toward them. A pair of boots wallop the ground with the magnitude of a rupturing fault line, plates beneath the earth’s surface shifting. It’s a quake the likes of which no commoner can produce.

She hears the twang of a bowstring, the nock of another arrow. Anger vaults to his feet, snatches her hand, and the world tips. Merry wobbles as though she’s standing on a high wire, then jolts as Anger hauls her forward.

They race across the hill, ducking another arrow that spears overhead. The music that’s been playing throughout the carnival turns off like a switch, although the rides still pulse around them.

Reality kicks in. She rips her fingers from Anger’s in order to pump her arms and legs.

Another arrow releases. She yelps, her hip whisking to the side and dodging the rod that whizzes by. Her speed alongside Anger reaches critical mass, yet neither of them match the stranger’s velocity.

That can’t be just any archer.

Archers are fast, but they’re not that fast. Does that mean these stunning arrows are fatal?

Whoever it is, Merry hasn’t gotten a look, and she isn’t about to. She yanks on Anger’s wrist, lugging him off course. “Merry, what—”

“Come on!” she shouts.

They reach the skateboard just as the adversary’s silhouette bleeds across the grass. Frankly, Merry’s irked and dazzled. This night has been going so well, and while she enjoys stints of drama, this isn’t the sort that she’s been envisioning.

An arrow soars. Merry’s so terrified and frustrated that she swipes the skateboard off the grass, then whips around. She lifts the board, blocking the arrowhead, which lodges into the surface and then vanishes.

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