Page 81 of Tempt

“I tried to save you.”

“I tried to answer you.”

“But we’re here now. We’re right here.”

“Are we?” he draws out. “And who am I? Right here?”

Wonder considers him. “You’re…”

She may know the details of who he used to be, but she’d never gotten to know that boy. Not like she knows him today.

So this request should be simple to fulfill. Nonetheless, Wonder stammers, and Malice’s gaze darkens. “Tongue-tied, eh? How about a simpler question: Who do you want? Me or him?”

Again, her mouth goes numb.

And with a slit of his eyes, Malice shears her silence down to the cartilage. “That’s what I thought.”

Just like that, his weight is gone, and his scent is gone, and his voice is gone. But it’s only when the door slams shut that Wonder realizes he’d gotten dressed and evicted himself from the room, his absence producing a mishmash of emotions that hardly correspond. Her womb cramps, and her fingers bend at the knuckles, forming steep inclines. Lastly, a suffocating density fumes in her cheeks.

Perhaps it’s akin to heat, a visceral and vicarious blend of him and her. It’s Wonder’s sorrow, Malice’s envy, and their anger.

Every moment she delays is one step closer to losing him all over again.

Him, who? Malice or Quill? The past or the present?

No matter which, he cares about her response more than she can fathom.

Wonder pulls herself together and leaps from the mattress, making a beeline for her wardrobe, where she stabs her arms through an off-the-shoulder blouse and harem pants, then stomps into boots. She collects her archery for no other reason than to catch his attention. If need be, she’ll shoot a quartz arrow past him, if it means he’ll give her a second to process—a second to be heard.

By the way, it would mollify Wonder to target him for putting her through six thousand dramas since his reincarnation, then expecting her to worship him the way she had worshipped his predecessor. Because of what? A few carnal romps?

Her heart aches, each pump a percussion of shame and longing. Their interludes hadn’t been meaningless. Not a single one.

Wonder descends from the dormitories. Along the corridors, lanterns twitch while fears and affections and resentments curdle within her, so that she’s unable to reconcile his question and her reticence. She cannot perceive Malice and Quill as separate.

Then again, neither does she think of them as equals.

She had cherished yet harmed Quill.

She had hated yet bedded Malice.

Tenderness and angst and worry clash. Malice has only just remembered the horrors of his past. He’s in no condition to handle any reply from her, not when the mystery of his existence has barely sunk in.

What can she say to him? What does she need in return?

Forgiveness? An apology? Both? Neither?

Is he all right?

Strobes of ethereal green embellish the Hollow Chamber, and the abyss suspends its breath. Engraved titles cut through book spines, the script flashing. Wonder follows the pungent sulphur of discontent, the ginger palate of a grudge, which barricades the slick, underlying texture of hurt.

Are these sensations pouring from her or him?

Wonder increases her pace, striding into the restricted section. She heads for the spot where they had collided, where everything had changed between them, where he’d stood naked after a rainstorm, and she’d exposed their secrets, and they’d taken each other to unprecedented heights.

She spots Malice prowling down that aisle. Bracketed by enigmas and loopholes, he paces ahead without a destination.

“Malice!” she barks—or cries. It’s a little of each.

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