Page 69 of Torn

The overhead nozzle douses them in rivulets as she cups his face. “All I truly feel is you.”

Anger vents for air. “Not enough.”

And then he’s on her. Striding them two steps across the tiles, he pins her to the shower wall, gripping her wrists above her head. His mouth snatches hers, their lips pulsing, kissing one another, kissing so much.

Merry’s head presses into the grout, her nipples pitting against his soaked shirt, one of her legs hooking over his hips. Anger hums, folding his mouth over hers and grinding their lips together.

“Merry.” Tearing himself away, he mutters against her chin, “I can’t stop this.”

“Anger,” she says. “I-I’m going to pass out.”

“Yes. Yes, you will.”

He descends, his lips melting from the crook of her neck to the swell of a breast. On a groan, he draws the ruddy pellet between his teeth.

Merry yelps, her head flying back. She’s truly, certainly, inevitably going to pass out. And in the process, this rage god may crack a few tiles.

Luckily, he resists breaking anything, and she resists falling.

Anger sucks on her sweetly, laving at the tip, extracting moans from them both. Then he switches breasts, his lips budding, overwhelming her with short, electric pulls.

His head drags to her shoulder. This escalates quickly, like a broken dam, which may be the effect of immortal decadence or deity seclusion.

Or it might be another L word.

But before that, there had already been friendship, and kinship, so it’s okay. It’s very much okay.

Merry licks her lips. She should say something memorable and intimate.

Instead, she hiccups. Anger’s head lifts, and when it does, the intoxicated bafflement on his face prompts a chuckle from Merry. She starts to laugh at the situation, at herself, at him. And so does he.

Afterward, Anger towels her off and carries her to bed. Being with him has exhausted her, and she goes limp in his arms, sensing that she’ll need energy reserves for whatever comes next.

He tucks her in, then departs for a moment, returning in a change of dry clothes—a long-sleeved shirt and jeans. Merry admires him while blocks of cement heave her eyelids down. Snuggled in, she bats at the air, reaching for him.

Mirth rumbles from Anger, tracking across her skin. He lifts the quilt, preparing to join her when the material freezes.

His breathing stalls. Merry blinks, the room and his face hazy.

He tilts his head to listen. Is someone calling out to him? Is it Wonder?

A troubled frustration contracts his features, followed by resolution. Merry knows that pout. It’s not a call from Wonder, nor Envy, nor Sorrow.

She’s too weary to fixate, but his gaze meets hers apologetically. He bows to kiss the ledge of her shoulder. “I’ll be back soon.”

“Nooooooo,” she whines. “Sleepy sleep.”

“Lazy goddess,” he jokes.

Merry watches his retreating back, his shirt shifting with stiff but determined movements. Something about that produces a dollop of apprehension.

“Where are you going?” she asks, feigning nonchalance.

Anger grips the doorknob, wavering. The delay in response produces an immediate twinge, because he’s withholding something.

He cranes his head over his shoulder, then returns to brush a lock of hair from her cheek. “To see Malice.”

It’s the truth.

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