Page 72 of Torn

It cannot be. But it is.

She cannot be here. But she is.

Anger’s heart sprints. Speech dries and shrivels in his throat, because he wants to be right. And he wants so badly to be wrong.

History always catches up, doesn’t it? Isn’t this something that he’s coveted, no matter the distance that he’s wedged in between them?

He’s flanked by a pair of bookshelves, a multitude of inaccurate myths, and two choices. He can turn around and potentially self-sabotage by indulging in that old, perverse longing. Or he can stalk away without a backward glance, without subjecting himself to the abuse. Or he can—

“Hi,” that feminine, newlyhumanvoice says.

Like a switch, the word makes the decision for him. Anger reacts instantly, mechanically.

He whips around. The bow falls from his fingers, skittering to the carpet.

That petite figment, with her marble skin and restless jerk of the hips. She’s wearing a white linen dress—short, as always—a loose-fitting jacket that hangs to the hem, and a pair of cropped boots encasing her ankles. An enamel bow-and-arrow pin flashes from her lapel.

Oval face. Feline eyes. High bone structure. Stubborn chin.

Her black hair slumps within a messy bun while she glances at a book—because she hadn’t been speaking to him. Not to him, but to the male librarian assisting her. Pointing at the cover, she inquires about similar titles, and the librarian excuses himself to hunt for whatever text she has requested.

That’s whom she’d been greeting. But for a horrible moment, Anger had suffered a taste of what Malice had promised. A brief chance to feel her attention directed at him, her eyes on him.

Yet she can’t see him. Not at the moment.

She nibbles her lip, shoving the book back into its slot. It’s a shelf about the myths of Eros.

Anger would laugh, if this were funny. If the sight of her weren’t chewing on his ribcage. Of all cities, of all libraries, of all corridors.

Her name, or what used to be her name, topples off his lips.

“Love…,” he whispers.

20

Anger

But her name isn’t Love. Not anymore.

It’s Lily. That’s her infernal mortal name, a label established between her and the human she adores, the one she’s elected to spend her limited existence with.

The human who is nowhere in sight.

She’s alone. And not really alone, because Anger’s there, so close to her.

As is Malice. The insufferable, calculating cur who has shoved this moment in Anger’s face, splitting open a scab and exposing it. His weakness resurfaces, muddying the progress his heart has made with someone else.

Truthfully, has Anger been making progress? Yes, he has.

But right here, he stands on a precipice because Love…dammit, it’sLily…is a beautiful, temporary figure. When she draws her finger across the book titles, Anger remembers how she used to hold a bow, how she used to focus on her targets and strike. He remembers how much she’d hated the drum of his fingers, how it had grated on her. They’d preferred to irk one another as much as possible.

He swallows, unable to guess what she’s thinking.

Is she still happy? Is she still in love?

Does she recall nothing of her former life? Not one image of him?

Anger hears Malice’s footsteps gaining, closing the distance until the demon god aligns with his back. Like a devil perching on Anger’s shoulder, Malice whispers in one ear, “To approach.” And then the other ear, “Or not to approach. That is the temptation.”

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