Page 8 of Torn

Is she taking advantage of his incapacity? Is she a threat? Where is her bow?

Where ishisbow?

Anger’s about to get angry. His arm lashes out, swatting the burdens from his proximity. The textiles go flying, making the female jump again.

He tears out of the bed and pounds up to her, his body halting centimeters from the shirt shield. Her eyes flex wide, as though scrambled in a pan. His shadow and height dwarf her, and he detects the barest hint of a shiver.

Yet she doesn’t appear intimidated or skittish. If anything, she’s spellbound.

“I asked you a question,” he grits out. “Who the fu—”

His growl causes a landslide in his head. He cringes, his skull jackhammering from one end to the other, forcing his digits to press against the pain.

His hostess snaps out of her trance. “My name is Merry,” she says, urging him back to bed and then rushing to get dressed, her choppy movements the very opposite of composed. “That’s Merry with aneand twor’s. As to the story, you were hurt—,” she crawls across the ground, “—after the carnival skirmish.” She retrieves a limp skirt and shimmies into it, wormlike on the ground. “That’s when you passed out—,” she twitches into the T-shirt she’d been carrying, “—and I brought you here.”

At the foot of the bed, she rises onto her knees and blows a lock of hair from her face. “We met at the Constellation Carousel.”

“Come again?” Anger demands.

“The carousel. You know, it’s a ride that—”

“I know what a carousel is!”

“It’s constellation-themed, like most things in this city. We met there, when you saved me from certain death and then fell into my arms. Can you think of no better location to have a first encounter? Right by an otherworldly carousel swirling round and round? And during a gallant rescue?” Her voice floats on a cloud while she squeezes the bed’s footboard. “Far be it from me to stand back and let you do all the badass work, which is why I joined the fray and defended you from Malice. But once he retreated, you were quite done for. Do you like music?”

Anger just stares at her.

She has a slot between her front teeth, a slight gap behind her lips. How can anyone pack so many words into such a compact space?

Merry bounces to her feet and adjusts the record’s needle, then glances at the vacant spot beside him. She hesitates, silently asking permission. The fluted skin between her brows is hopeful and oddly endearing.

Stumped, Anger doesn’t object.

Beaming, she plops on the blanket and scoots closer. A lot closer.

He hedges, unsure whether to interrogate her or evacuate the premises. She’s primping, threading through her ponytail and smoothing the pink layers. After that, she tugs on the cotton shirt, then on the pleated skirt, then on the fingerless gloves.

Fingerless gloves like his, except woven into black nets. He hadn’t noticed them until now. But once he does, Anger has trouble removing his gaze from them.

She has lovely, slender hands.

Those hands reach out, about to make contact with his temple. “You’ve got a tragic bruise there.”

He shifts out of fondling range. Merry notices, her features cinching as her hand jerks back. To be more specific, a cataclysm of hurt fills her expression. “I’m sorry. Did I do something wrong?”

“What carousel?” he asks. “What carnival? And what forsaken skirmish?”

“I have first-aid.” She’s relentless, rushing to grab a wet cloth from the nightstand and then returning. She extends her arm, ready to mash the wad against him, but Anger’s had enough.

He jolts away. This Merry person seems crestfallen by the rejection, and he’s beginning to comprehend why. In the minutes that he’s known her, it’s obvious that she possesses a saccharine side, which she has no experience containing. It’s becoming abundantly clear that she likes what she sees in her bed.

Shit. Infatuation. That’s all he needs.

But for some reason, Anger doesn’t care for the bereft look on her face, nor being the cause of it. He accepts the cloth with a nod of gratitude and sets it against his temple, wincing as he does so.

The gesture resurrects the color in Merry’s cheeks. She resembles a human of nineteen or twenty. In reality, this puts her around his age, no more than a few centuries old.

Her room is a garret with double doors leading to a rooftop deck. Tacked to the low brick walls, neon words glow.

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