Page 38 of Tempt

He spurts out a pained cackle. “So the wildflower doesn’t like to be trapped—”

“—any more than the demon,” she finishes.

Those pupils shrink. Releasing him, she snatches the robe off the steps.

He has taken her corsage, while she has looted his own possessions and then blatantly denied it, so perhaps they’re even. And as he’d said, he hadn’t peeked while she bathed. His mouth twitches whenever he’s not telling the truth, but those lips are doing nothing of the sort. Instead, they’re clenching.

Wonder shoulders past him, slamming up the steps while he stalks past her, striding down the stairs. On his way, he swings a hoop around his finger, an ornate moon-dusted key hooked to the ring. Just as she’d thought, a key to his room. Locks in the Peaks are resistant to immortal strength, meaning they’re not penetrable with the assistance of mere muscle or elbow grease.

For good measure, Wonder swipes the key ring from Malice while hiking up the steps. Without stopping, she flicks it out the nearest stairwell window, ignoring Malice’s curse. Smiling to herself, she trots toward the dormitories.

Thirty minutes later, she’s dry and armored in a gown dyed leaf green. The bodice drapes into a V along the spine, a sash wraps around the dropped waist, and the skirt cascades down her limbs. She threads her hair into loose twists at her nape.

The pièce de résistance? Freesia buds spring from the outer corners of her eyes.

Deities aren’t always the most mature beings in the universe. Epicurean, sensuous, excessive, petty, sometimes belligerent, and oftentimes spoiled, yes.

But not all of them. Others are regal, dignified, and patient.

For shame. Just because Malice behaves atrociously, that doesn’t give Wonder leave to act the same. Or else, what has she learned?

From her friends? From her expulsion? From her life?

She’s ready to be civil. Their earlier spat had been a mishap, because if she wants to succeed in this mission, she needs to wave a white flag, cease acting like a child with a competition complex, and encourage him to do the same.

Her unshod feet make for a quiet approach into the Hollow Chamber. It takes a while to locate him, but immortal ear canals pick up the shuffling of books.

The disturbance comes from three levels down. The grand stairway winds alongside the funnel, tapering toward the bottom floor while plankways and bridges intersect beneath the hovering astral sphere. On her way, Wonder detours along a fork in the maze of stacks. Stopping by the storage facilities, she collects sheets of parchment, needing the additional supplies anyway.

In the social science quarter, the honeycomb shelves force texts—customs, laws, and community—to slant rather than stand upright. Other volumes levitate overhead, their bindings spread like wings, soaring so high that one requires a rolling ladder to pluck them from the air.

Wonder plants the writing materials on an alcove’s table but keeps a single paper between her fingers. Just as she rounds the appropriate corner, there’s a distinct “Fuck” from the end of the bookcases. It’s punctuated by Malice slapping a title shut, hard enough to give it a concussion.

He’s made a column of books on the floor. Those must be the duds that he has gone through so far.

Wonder twists the paper into the shape of a telescope, peeks through, and pretends to adjust the focus. “What’s this? There’s a star that curses.”

Malice swings toward her without preamble. Brows crinkling, he forms his hands into his own telescope, his wrists jerking as he zooms in on her. “And there’s a star that drifts.”

The analysis jolts through her with uncanny accuracy. Something tells her that she’s hit the bull’s-eye with him as well.

“And there’s a star painted black,” she adds.

“And there’s a star covered in petals,” he rasps.

“A deceptive star.”

“A meddling star.”

His lips quirk, and the corner of her mouth lifts, and reluctant chuckles stumble from their tongues.

Their fake telescopes unfurl as they lower their arms. He appraises her gown, then the freesias ornamenting her eyes. A slow drip of awkwardness leaks into the aisle, though it’s something of a cease-fire, at least for the afternoon. But she can do better, because if there’s one way to get Malice to talk, it’s to push his book button—the egotistical little device that sets off a chain reaction of gloating.

Wonder knows, because she possesses the same button. She doesn’t need to rely on subtext or nuance with him. Not when it comes to this.

In the past, Malice has uncovered his own legends here. One of them had played a pivotal role in Anger and Merry’s story. By chance or divine intervention, that legend had clashed with the one Wonder had found, which also affected her friends’ romance.

“Before Anger and Merry became lovers,” she begins. “Where did you find the legend? The one you presented to Anger?”

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