Page 94 of Torn

Malice’s mouth twists. “I’ve never been a fan of exposition, particularly during the villain’s muahaha moment. Call me prosaic, but now that we’re all here, I’m in the mood to toot my own horn. Or do you want to guess?”

But he doesn’t let them guess, so it goes like this: Hours ago, Malice had advanced on Love in the bed-and-breakfast where she’d been staying. Pretending to be Anger, he’d lured her with a few comely whispers, then rendered her unconscious by waving a sedative in her face, the concoction roofied with mythical pomegranate juice. Overdosing on the fumes, she’d collapsed onto a rug, a tangible object for him to roll her up in and sneak away.

Avoiding humans had required some tactic and a few alleyways. After that, binding Love with ropes had enabled Malice to hoist her off the ground and fasten her to the buttress.

And prior to all that, he’d already pilfered her weapon from the trunk of her beau’s car.

Mentally, Anger fills in the blanks. Love’s weapon…no, Lily’s weapon. After she’d become a human, the Court had swiped her original bow. Nevertheless, he’d witnessed her retain an interest in archery, watched her rediscover the talent for it, an unmatched aptitude from her former life. She’d purchased a new set and must have brought it to the city, perhaps to visit an archery range.

She owns a human bow. And if it’s a human bow, it’s visible to anyone.

And it can kill.

“I do have a knack for abduction,” Malice boasts. “Where was I? Ah, yeah: horn tooting. Seriously, I can’t say which part was more hysterical. Approaching this legendary has-been—,” he gestures toward Love, who’s wearing herself out, “—or the part when I got to use the feisty thing’s own bow on her.” He snaps his fingers. “Oh, wait. That part is now.”

Love squirms. She grits her teeth in confusion as she beholds her weapon floating in midair, about to strike her down.

But I suppose I’ll have to take your advice and do the dirty work myself.

If Anger refuses to break Merry’s heart, Malice will do it for him. He’ll do it by revealing Anger’s secret in her presence, and by forcing him to choose between Love and Merry’s lives, betting on Anger’s hesitation.

That he’ll be torn between them. That his indecision will crush her.

Malice is wrong. He should have learned not to take Merry and Anger for granted.

Yet Anger’s arms shake. Terror drips down his spine, dread manifesting itself on one such occasion when a deity actually sweats.

Merry. Love.

Love. Merry.

One false move, and he will lose them both. One more minute of silence, and Malice will dump the contents of Anger’s secrets all over the floor, trashing this cellar with everything he should have said hours ago.

“Anger?” Merry frets.

There’s still one set of words that cannot be taken from Anger. Without looking away from his target, he says, “It’s you, Merry. It’s only you.”

She gasps. Malice’s smirk drops like a stone.

Love—Lily—must see the exile’s hold on the weapon slip, because her growls fade.

“Let’s test that theory,” Malice croons, tightening his grip on the bow again.

“All this because you wanted a ticket home? I doubt it,” Anger goads. “What did you really lose in the Peaks? What are you really looking for?”

On cue, Malice’s face warps. A flicker of desperation and…pain.

The most pivotal chink is that he doesn’t justify himself, keeping uncharacteristically quiet. He’s been two steps ahead for a while, fueled by layers that nobody’s had the savvy to strip back.

“A ticket home?” Merry echoes, baffled but not quite astonished by that statement, as if she recognizes its scope.

Anger explains what he should have on the rooftop. The legend and its magical reward. The chance to go home, to be an archer again. Malice’s knowledge from the Hollow Chamber and his offer.

Anger had planned to break Merry’s heart. Instead, he’d coveted it.

He’d fallen in love with her.

There’s a beat of silence, like the hush before a storm.

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