Page 57 of Torn

Instead of the previous pink linens, nebulous blue blankets and pillows conceal a mattress, situated beneath a canopy that can be opened or closed, whenever he wants to see that pure and natural skylight.

Lanterns outfit the space, filled with taper candles sinking into minerals that emit a foiled glint. She’d spent quite a while rearranging the casements until the effect felt right.

On the ground, a rectangular basin holds placid water, a makeshift pond with more minerals clustered at the bottom. And there’s a case of iron shelves for Anger to place tokens that matter to him, relics of his life, of his past and future.

Everything is sleek, cleared of fripperies. It’s safe from storms, too. Streamlined glass-sliding doors wrap around the makeshift room, to protect him from rowdy weather.

She twiddles her thumbs, then stops when his eyes lurch toward the motion. A hive of bees circumnavigates her stomach. She had expected the heady thrum of excitement, but all she feels inside is anarchy.

It could be a side effect of love, turning a person into an unpredictable version of themselves, to the point where they do and say things out of character.

“Ta-dah!” she squeaks. “You said you wanted a room of stillness and memory.”

Anger’s face slackens, his lips parting. Unable to stand it, Merry pulls him into the alcove. “I wasn’t sure about thread-counts, but the bed was a no-brainer. It fits your size, so you can toss and turn all you like. And I improvised on your request for iron and minerals and placid waters, but if you want everything back to the way it was, that’s fine. It’s just that you’re a guest, and guests should feel at home, and when you told me about never really feeling at home anywhere—that’s as tragic as never having gelato or attending a concert or…Anger?”

He brushes past her and stalks around the space. He traces each item, careful not to break anything.

His gait is no longer stormy. It’s cautious. A lump forms in Merry’s throat, and she doesn’t know if it’s his timidity, or the hesitant pace of his limbs, or six-thousand other possibilities.

Maybe he likes it. Maybe he hates it.

Maybe she has upset or confused him. For sure, she hears one question radiating from Anger: Why did she do this?

The answer is simple.

“I did this because I wanted to. That’s all,” she says, and then she makes it complicated by prattling, a conga line of words fluttering out. “Like I said, I can change it back, put things back the way they were. It’s up to you, it’s your choice, since I didn’t ask what you’d like, but I wanted to surprise you—and boy, do you ever look surprised. I wanted you to be comfortable here at Casa Merry, and I thought it might ease the angst after last night.

“By the way, I’ve been kissed before. Not that we actually kissed, but I think you should know. It’s impossible to go this long without a smooch, and I do have kindreds in this city. It happened twice, with Courage and then with Trust, so don’t worry. You didn’t scare or offend me by coming so close, although I’m a super fan of your mouth. I would’ve loved to kiss you, Anger. But…”

She deflates. Her voice wobbles, so she musters a smile, more for her sake than his. “If you feel only friendship, that’s okay. Friends is a start, except I’m currently experiencing a bout of queasiness?” she adds questioningly. “So I’m going to leave you now, since I’ve been talking too much, and you need…whatever it is you need.”

She gestures clumsily, invitingly, to the alcove. Then she dashes off, and the moment she turns, her face crumbles in mortification. Padding to the chaise lounge at the rooftop’s center, she flops onto the seat beneath the globe mobile, her skin awash in mood lighting. Properly quarantined like a lovesick virus, she dumps her face into her palms, feeling silly and scatterbrained.

And resolute. Because what happens, happens. What doesn’t happen, doesn’t happen. Honesty between them is more important than love.

“Gracious,” her mashed lips slur into her hands, the words muffled. “Some goddess you are.”

“Merry.”

Her head flips up to see Anger striding toward her, his features inscrutable. But his pace no longer wavers. It’s direct, aiming toward her like she’s a target.

She’s about to speak when he grabs her elbows and hauls her off the chair. Merry gasps. Gaining her feet, her overalls press against his tunic, the scent of vanilla and sandalwood clashing.

Anger looms, his fingers denting her arms, the pressure resurrecting the bees again. The gust of his breath rushes against her neck as he dips his head, those eyes blasting her with the force of a gale.

“Friends,” he agrees.

And then his turbulent mouth seizes hers.

Merry yelps as his lips slant, suctioning the air from her lungs. The contact is fierce, the angle of his jaw strong, the momentum reckless. Her knees buckle, and the world tilts—or that’s merely her skull as it cants with his.

Anger’s fingers spear through her hair, destroying the bun and pulling off the sequined kerchief, which falls from her head. Merry’s arms fling around him, clasping his nape, because it’s either that or crash to the ground. Her breasts flail against his chest, their hearts thrumming.

Oh, my Fates. Oh, my Fates. Oh, my Fates.

It takes a moment for Merry to do anything else. Is this happening? Is it really?

And then she’s sighing, and she’s kissing him back. Her mouth quivers as he pries her open, his tongue swooping between her lips and lashing at hers, slick and possessive.

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