Page 17 of Tempt

Thrusting the tip of her arrow into the bolt’s chamber, she gives a grudging twist, the mechanism wheezing from his ankles. It shimmers, succumbing to the pressure.

Indeed, there’s another way to open barriers. It’s called a damned key. In this case, it’s the tip of any arrowhead belonging to her peers.

What is she doing? What is she doing? What is she doing?

She’s freeing him and condemning herself. She’s making a deal with the devil.

That’s what she is doing.

Another necessary evil is his proximity, his form hovering while she kneels beside him. The air thickens, forcing her lungs to contract as she moves on to his wrists.

It’s no use, for she has to touch his skin. She cannot do this otherwise.

Wonder’s knuckles skim his, her pinky bumping into his wrist. He scarcely flinches, but she pretends not to notice one of his claws straining toward her scars, as if to sketch them. But the fingertip pauses just short of her marred skin, his digit curling in on itself.

If he makes contact, what will happen? How will it feel? How long will the effect last?

She picks open the shackles binding his hands. The clamp yields, its croak resounding through the room. She jerks back, needing to be the first one on her feet.

Peering at her, Malice rises. She stands her ground, choking the arrow in her fist. If she’s not careful, it’s going to snap.

Her gaze drops to where he massages his chafed flesh, the circumference of his wrists larger than she’d noticed. When he drags a thumb along his pulse point, a similar tempo beats in her throat.

“Thank you,” he mocks, the undercurrent of wrath sneaking into her hair and pulling on the roots.

“You’re not welcome,” she says, jamming the arrow into her quiver.

Her response washes the acid from his voice. “Being welcome? Where’s the fun in that?”

Naturally.

He moves with stealth, gathering relics of this place, including his saddlebag, which he stuffs with every envelope from his crate. One flutters to the ground by accident. Because she’s a glutton for punishment, Wonder bends to pick it up, gasping when his grip fastens around her arm, tightening like a vice.

They’re hunkered over, their knees tapping one another. With his free hand, he rescues the envelope. “Come near these again, and I’ll slit your scars open with my fingernails.”

“Where did you get such old paper?”

“Conjured them in the Peaks, back when I was a strapping young archer-in-training and suffering an identity crisis. Did you hear what I said?”

It’s a warning made of silk the color of oxblood.

Glowering, she wrenches her arm backward. Feasting on that glower like it’s his last meal, Malice tucks the envelope into the bag. This time, they gain their feet in unison, the movements synchronized with caution.

His answer accounts for the old envelopes as well as his rickety vintage telescope and saddlebag. While she has seen similar objects before, Malice’s possessions aren’t exact replicas. This fact is a relief as much as a torment.

They abandon the vault, with Malice able to pass through the stardusted bars while accompanied by Wonder. They travel side by side, keeping one another in sight.

At the stair landing, Malice throws back his head and inhales what she imagines is the scent of scholarship. It’s a minor indulgence, a moment of relish before he keeps going. For once, she doesn’t have to marvel at his impulse, because she understands this type of devoted worship.

Moonlight crashes through the windows, glazing the foliage that dangles from bookshelves. He strides down the corridor with a fiendish jut to his hips. Wonder would resent that attribute, but his tenor vacuums her thoughts into a black hole. A humming melody slides from under his breath, absently delivered and barely audible, but it’s enough to shatter her. Her mind fragments, scattering all over the hallway.

It’s only when Malice stalls that Wonder realizes she’s paralyzed, her boots stapled to the wool carpet. He tosses her a sidelong glance. Whatever her expression reveals, it tightens his jaw with rancor, as if she’s just issued an ultimatum.

“You can sing,” she says.

“Not on purpose,” he discloses. “You have a problem with that?”

Yes, she does. It’s too pertinent, too miraculous, too familiar.

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