Page 65 of Tempt

“Malice—”

“Am I right? I like being right.”

Of course, he’s right. “Malice—”

“That’s me,” he confirms, resentment tainting the words. “Glad to know you’re still aware of it.”

Wonder flinches. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“The locals sent me to that hellhole, not you. You didn’t kill me.”

He’s wrong. There’s more she hasn’t shared, an addendum to the tale, a detail that she cannot bear to admit. Her selfishness won’t let her.

Along the cases, engravings introduce stories, and fonts present chronicles. It’s a collision of texts, flanking Wonder and Malice within this aisle.

It’s fitting that she has bared herself here, protected within the Chamber walls. It’s her confessional, her saving grace.

It’s her life. And it’s his.

It’s an existence of wrongdoings on both sides. She detests him for using her friends as pawns and then trying to eradicate them. But he wouldn’t have done that if he hadn’t been reborn, and he wouldn’t have been reborn if she hadn’t meddled in his universe, entitling herself to it, branding it with immortal influence.

Perhaps being tainted with the residue of a deity had trapped him in between worlds, and that’s why he’d transformed after death. Perhaps it had linked him to the immortal world, to an unforeseen afterlife. Either way, she had played her part, and she should apologize to her peers for the domino effect.

But they’re not the only ones.

Wonder whispers, “I’m sorry.”

When Malice just stares at her, she drags herself to her feet. In their current moods, they need to be alone. He needs to absorb this backstory, as does she.

Pausing outside the aisle, she glances over her shoulder. He probably hadn’t expected her to do that, because she catches the tick of his jaw, his flippancy replaced by a glower aimed at the spot where she’d been sitting.

His body twitches when she speaks. “You asked me once. I didn’t answer then, but I will now: Yes.”

“‘Yes.’ Such a bold and permanent word,” he remarks without facing her. “Yes, what? I’m all ears, Wildflower.”

“Yes, you were worth the scars.”

He blinks. The pleats across his forehead vanish, as do the faint commas around his mouth, his entire face losing its crease. It’s a raw and rare profile, one of vulnerability.

And yes, she sees it. And yes, he lets her.

And yes, yes, yes. She doubts that he’s ever heard that single word used in conjunction with him.

Wonder pads away, strolling past banks of knowledge. The farther she gets, the more her journey through forbidden territory fortifies her. She’s a tree shedding its leaves, making room for new foliage that will sprout and reach for the moon.

She covers every inch of this place, traipsing deeper into the Chamber’s restricted roots. By the time oxygen returns to her in reassuring lungfuls, her nightgown is dry, and only the tips of her locks remain damp. How quizzical that she feels the most at home amidst revolutionary and scandalous texts. She’s not the only one, and as she thinks about it, her eyes prickle with the need for release.

Wonder traces each volume. Here’s where she found the solution to Love and Andrew’s happiness, and the key to Anger and Merry’s future. The reminder fills her with amazement, as well as jealousy and sadness.

When will it be her turn? Does she need anybody to call her own? She has survived this long without a partner, hasn’t she?

Some of the books are square, some rectangular, some circular. Who first thought to shape them this way? Who first thought to bind them in leather and sketch titles along the spines?

If she were a book, which kind would she be? What secrets or revelations would she contain? What words would she tuck inside herself?

And how long has she been ambling?

Quite a while, because she hears him coming, crashing his way through the lanes. She whips around. Rounding the corner, Malice stalks toward Wonder. With his eyes pinned to hers, he knocks a misplaced reading chair out of his path, sending it crashing to the floor.

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