Page 4 of Tempt

Thinking better of it, Wonder breaks away from these thoughts and returns to the present.

At the slide of her foot across the floor, the rocking chair pauses, and the creaking-cackling stops. A gilded head rises from the page. Ashen eyes prowl toward her, gray scythes that flash with recognition, then gleam with mockery.

The impact ignites across her skin. But how can he achieve this? Is it her imagination? Or is this truly what heat feels like?

Malice’s voice slinks into the space between them. “Well, well, well. It’s my lucky day. Not only is the sun busy outside—you know, busy being the sun, doing sunny things—but I’ve got company. Pleasant morning to you, Wildflower.”

He’s taken to calling her that, lauding the flowers that she dons as accessories. She likes to wear natural symbols of her celestial homeland, even if she isn’t welcome in the Peaks anymore. Plus, she loves the perfume and pliability of petals, bred from earth and soil. They’re products of aboveground and underground.

Huff. What she doesn’t appreciate is the nickname.

Giving him a “nice try” look, she approaches with industry. Her dress swats her legs and snags his attention. To her annoyance, the fact that he’s eyeing the lower half of Wonder’s body sends blackened fissures up her tailbone.

How deplorable that he provokes such a reaction. She’d been prepared to wear her detachment like armor, when really she should have simply worn pants. They’re convenient for discouraging—and for kicking.

Her hands balance a tray laden with refreshment: a fruit bowl, plus a choice of lemonade (from Merry) or tea (from Love). The third option of arsenic (from Anger), Wonder had covertly discarded before heading to the library vault.

Yes, the two rage gods share a recent and bitter history. Nonetheless, the clash between Malice and Anger is getting old, and it’s very much getting on everyone’s nerves. With their temperaments, neither is to be trifled with, but Fates! Must they act infantile?

Dishes clink as Wonder sets the tray on the fire pit’s rim beside the rocking chair, within Malice’s reach. He regards the provisions with an impish sneer. “You might want to step back, unless you’d like your frock stained.”

“Spit your meal at me again, and I’ll wedge the rest down your gullet until you asphyxiate,” she warns.

To which he tsks, slapping the book shut with a single hand. “Your upbringing should have taught you the merits of being on the offensive. Otherwise, you’ll never win a strategy game.”

“I don’t play games.”

A smirk crooks into his face. “I do. Matter of fact, I invent them.” He indicates the provisions. “Feel like dining with me?”

“I’m more partial to cherries and peaches.”

“I wouldn’t mind tasting what you like.”

“Starve, for all I care,” she says, flexing her scarred hands.

“For all you do care,” he replies, steepling his digits beneath his chin.

His rasp takes on a curious, husky note. With his head casually slumped to the side, Malice possesses a conniving beauty that belongs in a crime scene.

In the beginning, his sinister twist of the mouth had racked her from head to toe. Now the impact has condensed to a few choice spots, unmentionable and unforgivable spots that tighten and chafe deep inside her, causing a tumult of friction.

All he’s missing are the horns, curling like cornucopias above his head. But in that case, he’d resemble a satyr instead of a devil.

Malice swipes a pomegranate from the fruit bowl. Balancing the flushed orb between slender fingers, his nails trace delicately. “Pomegranates,” he snubs. “This is a bit niche for a nutritional choice. What makes you think I like these?”

Because this antagonist’s “home, away from home, away from home”—as he likes to call it—reeks of the fruit.

“Do you?” Wonder asks.

“I think you’d like to find out,” Malice intones. “I think you’d like to find out many things, a great many things, and very much so. I think you expect me to savor these plump baubles. Why is that?” Without waiting for an answer, he continues, “I think you’re looking for a validation—or proof to the contrary. Against her very nature, I think the Goddess of Wonder is looking for a guarantee, so that she doesn’t have to dwell on hypotheses. So that she doesn’t have to…” He pretends to contemplate, twirling his free hand. “What’s the word?” Then he raises a finger. “So that she doesn’t have to wonder.”

His canines dig into the rind, biting clear through the pomegranate’s shell. With every crunch, she imagines the burgundy kernels bursting in his mouth, juice leaking down his tongue. It would be tart and sweet on the palate.

He swallows. “Tell me: Yes or yes? Am I right? I like being right.”

How marvelous it would feel to wedge that pomegranate down his esophagus.

Wonder feigns a grin. “And how often are you actually right?”

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