Page 33 of Tempt

How I’ve missed you. How I loathe myself for what I did to you. How I despise you for what you’re doing to me.

I hate you. I love you.

I don’t forgive you. I’m sorry.

Wonder can look at him all day. And she cannot bear to look at him another second. It’s too much. She needs to get out of here before she dissolves and splashes to the floor, every word gushing out of her.

Is this why he treats her with vitriol? But it’s illogical. Malice may recall her letters to him, but he cannot know she’s the author. She was invisible back then; they never met in the flesh, much less in any guise. They’d never once spoken.

He remembers her words. But he cannot know her face or voice.

Can he? If he has somehow discovered that she’s the specter, it’s undetectable. But that’s Malice, seldom revealing what he wants, or feels, or knows. There are exceptions to this rule, but not many.

She gains her feet and matches his mask of indifference, blessed numbness settling over her. She has become accustomed to his unpredictable streak. She has gleaned the warning signs of when he’ll attack, when he’ll taunt, and when he’ll withdraw.

That deceptive calm suggests the latter, but she’s no fool: He’s livid.

His lips twist as he crooks a finger, silently beckoning her. If he wants Wonder to draw near, he’s got another thing coming.

Noting that, he boosts himself from the molding and prowls toward her, stopping close enough for her to see the charred flecks in his irises. And because she folds her hands in front of herself, he dips his head to examine the scars, which inspires him to swerve a fingernail, pretending to sketch the starburst marks. From the day they met in the Celestial City’s library, he’s been fixated on her wounds, while she has refused to give him a single tidbit of information. Denying Malice facts drives him to the precipice yet gives his adversaries power.

To this day, Wonder chooses power. Though her skin prickles from the illusion of his digit skimming her.

“Pain clashes with your skin tone,” he observes in a ghastly tone of voice. “Was it worth it?”

The subtext of his inquiry isn’t hard to miss. He’d seen her rifling through his envelopes, so it’s best not to explain until Malice decides what he wants to say. Otherwise, she’ll back herself into a corner and give him too much information to play with.

Was the pain worth it?

“I don’t know,” she replies, because she honestly doesn’t know anymore.

To which Malice gnashes his teeth. “Either you’re one hell of an overachiever, or you’re a nosy-assed goddess.”

Wonder finds her stamina, resilience sprouting from the depths of her stomach and sprinting off her tongue. “Does it have to be one or the other? Can’t I be both?”

“Curious. You’ve got the Archives at your disposal…our home, away from home, away from home. What can my saddlebag give you that a million square feet of stacks can’t?”

“Where is my corsage?”

“Christ. Is that all you want to know? Are you sure that’s what you were looking for? Seems to me that you followed the scent of paper instead. Couldn’t help yourself but to help yourself, is that it?”

“You arrived too soon. I had no chance to help myself.”

In a nutshell, denial sounds guiltier. With Malice, it’s better to subvert his expectations by owning up.

He calls the bluff, stalking past her. Wheeling slowly, she watches him squat and pick through the bag. He must have the letters organized in a way that only he can identify, just in case someone with curves decides to snoop.

Wonder steels herself. She’d made sure to place the envelope in its original spot, but pulling a fast one on Malice is a challenging feat.

If he grins, that means he’s going to pounce. Unarmed, she flits her eyes over to the wooden longbow propped against his bed post.

At last, he rises. His shoulders relax, along with that wiry mouth.

Good. She won’t have to use his archery on him.

“Are you satisfied?” she asks.

He runs the plank of his thumb across his lower lip, considering her. “Oh, I will be. Rest assured.”

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