Page 71 of Torn

More than his selfishness.

Yanking his thoughts back to the library, Anger steadies himself, tamping down any visible passions. If Malice gets a whiff of something that transcends lust, the barest hint of affection…

The demon god is clever, invested, ambitious. Anger refuses to put deviance or the unexpected past this one.

Thankfully, Malice doesn’t seem to notice a shift. He tosses the book over his shoulder, which any patron could have seen. “Welcome back to my home, away from home, away from home,” he says, his chest strapped in another leather sweater that reminds Anger of a straitjacket.

He matches Malice’s pose, dropping his shoulder against the bookcase. “You know, it just occurred to me: Why haven’t you tried to break a heart yourself? You’re cunning enough.”

“Who says I haven’t?”

Anger gives him a knowing look, which causes Malice to sniff. “I seem to have a knack for turning deities off, rather than turning them on.”

That’s not hard to swallow. Malice is on the fiendish end of handsome, with the juxtaposition of his impishly gilded hair. Deities would crave his ferocity, if his sanity were intact.

On the flip side, his diabolism equates to perceptiveness. It’s a surprise that the tactical god hasn’t concocted a method of seducing a fellow exile’s heart. Perhaps he’s afraid to try.

Then again, love is not in a deity’s bloodstream. Only Anger’s class—he’s willing to admit this now—is susceptible. Their elite unit is the very marinade for such a complex emotion, having been forged by the essences of anger, sorrow, envy, and wonder.

Neither Malice, nor any other outcast in the city, is equipped to enact this legend. None other than Anger.

And perhaps Merry, birthed as a love goddess, dud or not.

He disdains thinking of her that way. She’s more than the Fates have earned. More than he has earned.

He switches off the quandary with a click of his head. If he and Malice have convened, the rage god has news.

“I take it you’ve called me here because you’ve found something,” Anger assumes.

Malice quirks his lips. “I have.”

When the misfit fails to expound, Anger grunts, “Am I to guess?”

“Actually.” His attention strays over Anger’s shoulder, his face alighting as he circles his index finger. “You’re to turn around.”

“The last thing I’m going to do is expose my back to you.”

“Oh, why stop there?” Malice mocks. “I’m the bozo who’ll stab a barbed object through your back, right here in my humble abode. Never mind that I’m not packing terminal alternatives to archery today. And who cares if that would negate my life goals, keep me obsolete for eternity, so long as I get to end you for no unequivocal reason? I’m just that batty.”

Point taken. But allies or not, Anger will never fully trust this degenerate. He’d been insane enough to pit the Court against Anger and put Merry in harm’s way, regardless that it ensured her trust toward Anger.

Malice tips his head with exhilarated menace. “Now if I were you, I’d turn the fuck around. Or else you’re going to miss her.”

Her? Her, who?

Miffed. Dubious. Unconvinced.

Then, suddenly, not. Anger searches Malice’s face. He speculates, then realizes this heinous archer has the oily look of anticipation.

Of gratification. Because whomever he’s leering at over Anger’s shoulder, it’s someone worth the attention.

His spine prickles, a familiar rush across his skin that he hasn’t endured since he’d cloistered himself in a snowy mountain town, a glutton for punishment.

Past torments and poignancy resurrect, drifting from a nearby arrival. The feisty perfume of mischief, mixed with melted frost. The lacerating texture of bereavement and rejection.

And other fundamentals. The sound of her voice, like snowflakes whisking against the bluff of his chest. The impulsive pace of her feet.

He knows the speed of her walk, the weight and shape of her, the sound of her. He’s been studying these things his entire life, his heart decomposing more every decade.

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