Page 43 of Tempt

The truth floods Wonder’s senses, tugging her into oblivion. She’s remorseful as her vision wanes. Life blurs until all that’s left is a set of rogue eyes, wide open and riveted on her.

12

Dreams beckon Wonder, submerging her into a watercolor sea, where she pirouettes from one color scheme to the next, swimming in seeds and petals.

Then dawn calls for her to return, its resonance as dainty as a melody pouring from a flute. It’s been so long since she’s had such delicate visions that Wonder rouses effortlessly. She feels like butter, her figure swaddled in linens and the leisurely blue haze of morning.

A weight burrows beside her, rising and falling under the blanket, a bundle of masculine hums. His face is the first thing she sees. The fans of his golden lashes twitch, the hatches of his deep-set lids indicating blessed sleep.

It’s the visage of an angel and a demon, benign and malignant. Like this, Malice is a star, pure but blinding.

And he’s right here, his breath stirring Wonder’s hair. At her age, it’s hard to believe there are any new emotions left to feel, much less new experiences to have. But this moment proves her wrong. She has neither seen nor experienced anything remotely comparable to this.

And now she knows what gratitude feels like.

Yet it dwindles quickly, overshadowed by reality. His nightmares comprise the tattered remains of his past, a past that’s pulling him into fragments. Does he know the vision was once reality? Does he know that it really happened to him? She still hasn’t gleaned exactly how much he recalls.

Regardless, after last night and everything she’s heard, Wonder has to tell him about the legend. If recovering his heart will revive the memories and the part of himself that died, then he might find peace. With any hope, he’ll never scream again, not as he had last night.

Then again, there’s no guarantee. She can only beseech the stars that remembering won’t otherwise lead to additional nightmares.

And friends or not, rivals or not, enemies or not, this will end only one way. Either Malice won’t get his memory back and continue to suffer this trauma, in addition to despising her. Or he will get his memory back, a platform on which to begin healing, in addition to remembering what she did to him. At which point, any speck of companionship will vanish, and he will rue the day she was born.

It will always cycle back to hate.

But if Wonder succeeds in releasing her own heart, how he feels about her won’t matter, because she won’t care. She’ll have emancipated herself from this emotional clutter, her mission in life narrowing to that of an immortal librarian and archeress, not a pining one obsessed with a dead boy, nor a grieving female who knits other couples together in order to compensate for loneliness. She’ll be strong once more, pumped with vigor for this struggle over equality between realms.

There’s one fatal flaw to this hour: Their hands are still clasped between them. As Wonder tries to wriggle free, his fingers tighten. Her gaze springs to his eyes only to discover those chasms awake and piercing.

“Slumber is a fickle pastime,” Malice intones. “It renders you helpless yet sets you free.”

“I want my fingers back,” Wonder says. “Let go of them.”

“I’m sure you do. It’s nice to have fingers. They’re practical for touching and fondling things that don’t belong to you. Things like secrets.”

“You’re referring to more than just secrets.”

“You’re right. I’m referring to fornication.”

She jerks her digits from his grip. “I see that side of your cerebrum is intact.”

“I see the topography of your own cranium has reached maximum capacity and needs to unload.”

Malice does this whenever he’s uncomfortable, whenever he gets desperate. He tosses out suggestive comments, making others squirm so thathedoesn’t have to. Based on his belligerent expression, he knows that she knows.

His features ricochet between sober and silken and scathing, between harsh and harsher and harshest. It’s ill-advised to show him compassion or pity. Even while holding her fingers prisoner, his eyes shout the obvious protests: how she shouldn’t have barged into his room, how he wants her out of here so he can fester and break something.

But he’s right. Her mind is filled to the brim, crammed with too much of him and not enough of her. And that, she will not stand for.

Wonder meets his stare. “I found something.”

She tells him. She tells him when, and how, and what. She tells him about the legend.

Wonder omits two things. One, the portion about releasing her own heart. Two, how she’d used the letter from his saddlebag to uncover the legend’s text. Instead, she replaces that detail with a random sheet of paper.

When she finishes, Malice’s silence permeates the room, amplifying every shuffle of the blanket. If she gives him enough time, he’ll fish through her thoughts and hook on to the missing pieces. Already he’s picking through her words, scavenging for ulterior motives or errors of logic. That’s what he does—overthinks and overcomplicates.

Whipping back the linen, Wonder swings her legs over the side. As she stands, Malice’s pupils latch on to the strap of her camisole, which has slid down her shoulder, exposing the summit of a breast. A scant two inches more, and the bud of a nipple will make a grand entrance.

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