Page 74 of Torn

Wonder glances past Anger. “Be quiet, you—”

She chokes on whatever she’d been about to say. Moreover, she releases a bedraggled and terrified sound.

It’s so uncommon from Wonder that Anger rips his gaze from Love, in order to inspect his peer. She’s gaping at Malice with a haunted expression, her features slack, her mouth hanging ajar.

“You,” she quavers.

To his credit, Malice’s brows furrow. He recognizes her, but apparently not in the way she does him. “Goddess of Wonder. I’ve seen you around in my heydays, in the Archives. Buuuut…,” he draws out, bemused, “I doubt you’ve ever noticed me. Or am I misdirected? Have we met before?”

That last question causes her to buckle. She blanches, peering at him as if she’s seen a ghost, as if she’s about to faint.

Anger is dubious whether she’s even aware of Love anymore.

And Malice is so perplexed—by the way Wonder traces the scars on her hands, by the wildflowers in her hair—that he regards her fright with hostility. The moment he narrows those ashen eyes at her, Anger’s bow plummets from her limp fingers.

The pair doesn’t look away from each other.

Anger should intervene, but the greedy side of him decides against it. There’s a gap in time. An interlude when there’s nobody left but him and Love.

It’s an opportunity. So he takes it, grabs it in his fists, and heads toward her.

With each step, a place in the world storms, whipping through woodlands and carnivals, scattering snow and twinkle lights, knocking townsfolk and urbanites out of the way. With each distance bridged, a monsoon wakes from sleep.

He’s inches from her, staring down at her bent head as she reads the introduction to an anthology of Greek myths. Her finger, which used to crook around her bowstring, glides down the table of contents. She’s searching for the chapter on Eros. Another compulsion of hers when she became mortal, researching that fictional divinity.

Once Anger does this, he cannot undo it. But the urge keeps tugging on him, keeps tugging. It climbs up his throat, slides across his tongue, and wobbles on the rims of his lips.

He leans over, because she’s diminutive, has always been diminutive. Even if she has a blemish on her chin, an uneven skin tone, and prickles of hair from an un-tweezed brow line—human flaws, human reality—her height in comparison to his hasn’t changed. Not everything has changed.

As she scans the chapter about Eros, with all its pomp and inaccuracy, he blows into her ear. “It’s a lie.”

The effect is immediate. She stiffens, an intake of air streaking into the space between them. Although she may not hear him, her psyche feels his words, senses them like a distant and disorientating hunch. Even mortals express these sorts of perceptions, dubbing them such variations as a sixth sense, clairvoyance, deja vu.

Love’s head volleys left, then right, checking the library. Shaking herself, she returns to the page, only half-concentrating.

“The myth of Eros isn’t the truth,” Anger whispers. “Your story is the truth.”

She grasps the book, squeezes the rims. But she isn’t afraid, because she has never scared easily before. It’s ingrained in her, not to fear him or dispute what’s happening, because a dollop of goddess prevails in her mind, in her heart.

Hopefully, that essence will last forever.

Not to mention, she’s always been a daring, feisty female. That’s why she cocks her head, trepidation leaking from her, confidence restored.

She’s intrigued. Or perhaps fascinated is the right description. Either way, she wants to know more, whatever this is.

Anger continues to penetrate her like a muse. “You were a star that refused to shine.”

At this, her lips twist in amusement, wry and wily. She likes the notion of being defiant. No surprise there.

She speaks, mumbling so that her kind won’t overhear. “What else?”

Fates, help him. They’re talking, her voice reacting to his. Him, the mesmerizing center of her attention at last.

Anger’s heart bleeds from his mouth. “You wore a white dress, like you do now. You climbed evergreens and stole winter ornaments.” His eyes cling to the rapid pulse in her wrist. “You were evasive and disobedient.” His fingers sail across her jaw, passing through like mist. “And you were everything.”

Her face slants. “Is that true?”

Yes, it is. Yes, itwas.

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