Page 87 of Tempt

“Never in our existence have we…,” the braided god cuts himself off, his hawk nostrils flaring. “It seems our dispute with you and your peers last year hasn’t dwindled. We should have known it wouldn’t end in that mortal library, however much we’d hoped you would see reason.”

“On that score…,” the frosted goddess hints, pricking Malice’s flesh with the tip of her arrowhead, to which he squints, “finally, he’s learned to be silent. However did you manage that, Wonder?”

“You credit me too soon,” Wonder predicts.

Because three, two, one: “Go to hell, mate,” Malice grits out to the ruler, right on cue.

The goddess moves to impale him, render him mute.

But she halts when the gossamer goddess stares at Wonder. “Are you in love?”

The question thrusts from the ruler and spears through the room, staying everyone’s tongues. The word is a force unto itself, ill-fitting in the sovereign’s mouth, too large for her to bear, too massive for her companions to catch. Coming from her, it has an alien shape, a slippery texture, and a translucent body, lacking visible composition.

The braided god balks. The cloaked god scowls. The purple goddess is aghast, her eyes jumping between the gallery’s occupants. The frosted goddess hikes a single brow that fails to reach her hairline, as though she’s gazing through a lens, searching for an object that isn’t there.

Wonder’s heart lashes against her breastbone.

Is she in love? With whom?

Because it’s such an inconceivable query coming from a sovereign, Wonder fails to apply it to anyone. That a Court member would ask borders on acknowledgment, a willingness to believe that such an emotion might be possible amidst their kind. Or this goddess is just toying with Wonder.

The word dangles off a hook. It waits to be plucked, to be claimed by a courageous soul.

Battered and bruised and bleeding, Wonder snatches the word and clasps it tightly. Is she in love? With him?

Him, him, him?

Whichhim?

It’s the same thing Malice had asked her.Me or him?

She feels the brushfire of his gaze. Her eyes cut over to the demon god, the scholarly satyr, the maddened outcast who has become her friend and lover.

Malice, who thinks her intelligence is beautiful. Malice, who inspires her to darkness as well as lightness. Malice, who treats each of her thoughts like books, individual and infinite. Malice, who doesn’t hold back.

Malice, who makes her scream. Malice, who makes her laugh.

His eyes flare like furnaces, as though he doesn’t want her to answer. Wonder’s gaze trickles over his features, slipping to the rapid pulse in his throat. She’d give anything to see that pulse beat for eternity.

Her attention slides back to his wiry lips withholding breath—and belief. He thinks he knows what she’ll say, how she’ll answer, because how can she reply any other way? Who would love a black soul like his?

Are you in love?

Meeting his eyes, Wonder whispers, “I…”

“Too flustered to answer? That’s fine,” the goddess says. “Because I wasn’t asking you.”

Wonder falters, goggling at the sovereign. Then whom had this female been addressing?

Oh. That’s whom.

The goddess maintains a steady gaze on Wonder, but her query shifts toward the only other exile in the room. Malice’s lips split, parting in confusion. He screws up his face as if he doesn’t understand.

But it makes sense. Whatever the deities believe about love, they would deem Wonder susceptible. She’s part of the elite class that had included the first love goddess in history; as time has gone by, her peers have been revealing a penchant for sentimentally. The Fates either assume that it’s due to Love’s influence or because each member of her class—Anger, Envy, Sorrow, and Wonder—is a fundamental component of the emotion.

But Malice isn’t part of Love’s class. Between him and Wonder, he’s the one less likely to emit that breed of affection.

Wonder watches him reach the same conclusion, a snarl curling from his mouth. Those gray orbs waver, wrestling with the notion.

---