Page 5 of Torn

Oh.Cradling his head and lolling it toward her, she sees him. She sees all of him. And she’s speechless, her mind glowing like a neon sign, brighter than the cotton candy tint of her hair.

Her heart turns into a skateboard, doing a bullflip in her chest. Gracious, he’s dreamy.

The unconscious stranger is young, maybe a little younger than she. His countenance is akin to a mortal of twenty, which puts him somewhere around two-hundredish years old.

He resembles a tornado—tapered, toned, and turbulent. He has an olive complexion and dark hair that hangs to his shoulders, the upper half knotted at the back of his head.

A stud pokes from one ear, and a sterling hoop glares from the other lobe. Instead of modern attire, the archer’s wearing a sleeveless tunic, plus the fingerless gloves made of braided leather, a companion to her own fishnet pair.

On that note, he’s got strong hands, which is the most divine thing about him.

She loves those hands. She loveshim.

She instaloves him with her fanning lashes and zero-to-sixty pulse.

It happens at first sight, just like that, all or nothing beneath the night sky.

2

Merry

It’s a laborious journey back to the loft. Merry carries the skateboard with one arm while balancing the young man with the other. Smacking his cheek has failed to make a dent in his consciousness, so she resorts to a ride on the tram. The automatic doors whoosh open, and they hobble into her neighborhood, the archer’s dead weight pulling her down, forcing her to walk lopsided.

A human wouldn’t have made it this far with him. Being immortal has its perks, even if some are forfeit for exiles.

It’s a residual bonus that she can traverse long distances instantaneously from city to city, from country to country. But her kind is restricted across short radiuses, such as within this metropolis. And in any event, she can only travel individually, not ferry others with her, so it’s impossible to transit both of them at once.

Garlands of light spiral around the avenue of trees, and vegetation sprouts between the square margins of sidewalk slates. This realm is an urban terrarium of winking branches and overgrowth, of ornate historical buildings topped by gardens and thickets and conservatories, with telescopes at the helms. Everything resides beneath a dome of constellations bridging earth and sky, nature and starlight.

As Merry staggers down the lane, she coos to the unconscious archer. “We’re almost there, handsome. In your hour of need, I’ll nurse you back to health, and I’ll soothe those tough brows, and I’ll be there when you awaken, and then you’ll behold me, and—”

Her true love groans as if he needs her tostoptalking. His head flops against her shoulder. Oh stars, he smells heroic, like sandalwood with dashes of tempest and fury.

They reach the block’s end, where an observatory looms. It’s a veritable temple to the stars, a planetarium attached to a brick building threaded in ivy. There are numerous observatories in the Celestial City, but this one is hers and thus invisible to mortals.

It’s yet another Herculean quest to pass the interior’s foyer and pendulum basin, then onward to the building’s stairway. Fates, he’s heavy, even for her. It must be on account of those whipcord abs and athletic biceps, since he’s not brawny by any means.

She’s caught between the young man’s heft and her own epiphany.

I’ve fallen in love. I’ve never been in love.

Do I look any different?

Hiking to the top floor, Merry dumps the skateboard and hoists the stranger across the floor. His pec rubs against the side of her breast. At the contact, a fluttery noise escapes her lips, her body venting with oxygen.

Making it to her sanctuary in the garret, she bumps open the door with her foot and stumbles inside with her patient. She flounders to the bed, both of them capsizing onto the mattress.

Wiggling upright, Merry perches on the edge and rolls the archer onto his back, then gazes at him in awe. She cannot resist sketching the ledge of his dusky jaw with her fingertips, which causes his face to scrunch. It’s the kind of expression that resents sleep and swoonery, like they’re annoyances.

Yet this savior must be a powerful deity, because he knows how to faint beautifully. One arm crooks above his head, the other covers his tapered waist. Merry wants to measure that waist, to gauge how her legs might fit around it, to see how hard her thighs would need to clamp while he moves in between them.

She shakes herself. They’ve only just met, and even though she adores him, there will be plenty of time to fantasize later.

First, recovery is paramount. This stranger has come to her rescue, and she needs to save him back.

Merry drapes a blanket over his frame while humming a ditty. Swaddled, he sinks into the pillows, his temple bruised from where Malice had pounded into him.

The stranger mumbles something, a single word from the tight plank of his mouth. “Love…”

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