Page 39 of Torn

The creases of satin, the tremble of lace. The contours of her curves and calves.

Clouds twitch as she approaches him. Before she can ask if he needs help, he untangles himself from the humiliation, lowering his form to the ground and standing. He towers over her in the dark, but that pink halo of hair glows, a beacon brightening the universe.

The hem of her nightgown swabs her knees, pattering against his limbs. Her eyes rush over his bare chest, down to the waistband of his jeans. When those orbs rise again, Anger’s gaze swerves from the same involuntarily inspection he’d been giving her—her slippers.

Yes, her slippers. Not the flutter in her throat or the billow of her neckline.

Anger senses her blinking away, too. And when she does, he chances another glimpse. He cannot feel heat any more than Merry can, but a thick and disturbing profusion of liquid fizzes through his veins, just as slashes of fuchsia race up her cheeks.

She tucks the robe closer, yanking on the ties to fully enclose the gown.

It would be so easy to reach out and undo it again. It would shock her. It would encourage her, which is what he should be doing.

Anger’s fingers flex, ticking with restlessness. He wants his bow and quiver. He wants to shoot something, to fix something, to control something.

Merry skips over to the cot and settles on it, crossing her feet at the ankles. She’s an expert, the hammock cupping around her without incident.

“Aren’t you going to join me?” she asks.

“You’re hogging the space,” he lies.

“Never fear. I’ve got the midnight fussies like you.”

“I don’t get fussy. I get furious. And you hibernated just this morning.”

“That doesn’t count.” Merry yawns, stretching her arms and splitting the robe again, ties be damned. “I wish that I could rest more. It’s such a delight slumbering at night, isn’t it? Bathed in silver and all those shadows in your room?”

Anger eases into the slot across from her. He’s pleased when the hammock stays put as he settles in, facing Merry from the opposite end, his toes touching her slippers. “So you sleep more than necessary, merely for the ambience.”

“I sleep more than necessary in order to dream. I like to dream, and sleeping is convenient for that.”

His mouth quirks. “It’s been a while since I called a room my own.”

“Tell me about the spectacular and sorrowful places you’ve lived.”

Infectious girl, often getting him to oblige. She’s just so entertained, so enthusiastic to listen. For a change, it’s nice to be listened to.

It’s…nicer…when it’s with her.

He leans back, using her posture as a guide and mirroring the position. He speaks of the Court and his Guides. He tells her about growing up in the Peaks, wielding the power of fury in the human realm, and regulating mortal fates. He tells her about the metropolises, the parched deserts, and the war zones to which he’s been assigned over the past century. He tells her of the furies that he’s either infused or reduced, depending on what each human has needed.

Mostly, it has been the latter. Mortals get riled easily. It takes stamina, courage, accountability, and humility to calm down. That’s where Anger has helped.

He’s proud of his timeline. At least, until he notices Merry pouting.

He switches direction, speaking of his banishment. Yet she withholds her own tale, for which Anger suffers a craving, a gnawing at the pit of his stomach. He wants to ask. More than that, he wants her to answer.

The notion hits a personal nerve. It’s a dumb inclination since he’s the one lying about the most vital thing: his intentions toward her.

“So you’ve been without a home all this time?” Merry asks. “Wandering, never taking up residence outside of the Peaks?”

“I like fresh air,” he tries to joke. “You said it yourself, it’s charming to sleep beneath infinity. I’m sure you have reasons for choosing an observatory?”

“But if you could have a new home of your own, a room of your own that wasn’t simply assigned to you. If you could have that, what would be inside it?” She points at him. “You have to be honest but inventive.”

What a little sprite. She’s changing the subject, albeit the prompt distracts Anger from confronting her. On this account, it’s pleasant to consider what he hasn’t before.

He gives it legitimate thought. “It would be a place of stillness,” he says, out of his comfort zone yet enveloped in it. “It would be as stable as iron, as pure as stars—full of memory. For as long as we live, rarely do we get the chance to build memories.” Idealistically, he reminiscences about the locations where he’s felt the tamest, the most himself in the Peaks. “My home would have minerals and placid waters. The hushed and nebulous color, blue.”

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