Page 10 of Tempt

She barely has time to turn around before he’s on her. In a flash, Wonder’s back slams into the bookshelves. The titles quake. An avalanche of fiction tumbles and hits the floor, while the hardcover slips from her fingers and joins the casualties.

The impact of Malice sucks the air from Wonder’s lungs, his forearm jabbing into her throat. His solid body flattens against hers, the muscles beneath his clothes flexing. Those eyes—saturated tones of gray in his face—pierce through her, the makings of a vendetta conspiring to brighten his irises. The chaos of his breath buffets her neck, a thick current making contact with her pulse point.

Pinned together like this, his form inundates hers. And up close, and for an instant, she mournsthatboy, wants him to bethatboy.

But despite having the same face, he doesn’t possess the same soul and never will. Bereavement morphs into resentment, because this moment is nothing to lament about.

This is something to fight.

Wonder’s knee jams in between his thighs. He howls, and she takes that opportunity to ram her flat, upturned palm into his jaw. The force of it sends him flying into the opposite bookcase, the structure tipping like a domino, which hits another domino, which hits another, until the lane of stacks crashes in succession. The ground shakes as paperbacks and hardbacks plummet, the texts striking the floor.

Vaguely, Wonder ponders whether a video camera is catching all of this. To the human eye, the shelves tumble over on their own, lacking points on the Richter scale to explain the phenomenon.

The demon god leaps, throttling her back to the position in which they’d started. However, this particular bookcase stays put, a lone survivor that rattles but doesn’t yield.

She should have finished the chore and pounded him when she’d had the chance. Instead, his forearm resumes its task, crooking into her throat and making her wheeze. His gilded curls sweep along Wonder’s cheekbone, and his features crinkle with pleasure.

He’d fooled her. This morning, he hadn’t been alluding to a secret or clandestine tip. No, he’d merely lured Wonder with the illusion of one, maneuvering her like a chess piece, placing his queen to strategic advantage.

He’d expected her to come here. He’d predicted that she would take the research bait, unable to help herself.

But how did he escape?

“Good girl,” Malice sing-songs. “Bad boy.”

“How,” Wonder chokes. “How…?”

“Smart girl,” he answers. “Smarter boy.”

That voice slithers, a hum-hiss along the shell of her ear. His lips twist into a smirk, and his free hand pins her wrist overhead, a taloned thumb scraping her flesh. A few more inches, and his hips will wedge between her thighs, though it’s hardly a lascivious move on his part.

Wonder squirms, writhing between him and the shelves, wrestling for an advantage.

“She’s restless. It’s a wonder—ha!” A demented cackle springs off his tongue, finding the pun uproarious. “It’s a wonder that you’d cave so easily. Or it’s not a wonder at all. Tell me, Goddess. Is it a wonder? Is it? Hmm?”

“Get off me,” she grits through her teeth.

“Come now,” he coaxes, resting a digit against her mouth. “Aren’t you impressed? Or if you’re not going to answer, at least tell me what happened to your hands. Every time I ask, you clam up.”

She hacks up phlegm and lobs it in his face. Sniggering, he wipes the glob from his chin.

Then Malice’s humor drops like a rock, and his arm hammers her deeper into the shelf. “Don’t care for those questions? Then how about this one.” He exerts pressure, making her gag. “Where’s my fucking bow?”

Malice leans in to hear the answer, like it’s a secret.

Close enough. Wonder’s teeth lash out, snatch, and sink.

Her body slumps as he releases her, in order to clutch his bloody lobe. Spinning, Wonder whips out an arm, executing a backhanded strike that catches his profile. Malice goes down, crashing atop the books. Doubling over, she braces her hands on her thighs and pants for breath while the rage god keels into himself, cursing and worming across the mound of titles.

Four pairs of feet barrel down the library. Two pairings crash into the scene.

That’s how Wonder’s class finds her and Malice.

Andrew’s shock of white hair glows in the dark. His high-collared black coat hangs off him, gaping open in the same manner as his mouth. “Holy shit,” he bleats.

His beloved Love stands beside him, a spritely vision of angular features and black tresses snarled in a lazy bun. Beneath her oversized jacket, a white linen dress drapes to her knees, hovering above motorcycle boots. She grips her bow, an iron arrow nocked, but she lowers her weapon when she spots Malice wailing.

Anger, on the other hand, doesn’t lower his bow. He’s livid, the planes of his olive skin taut. “What the Fates!” he blusters.

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