Page 20 of Touch

“Assholes,” she berates. “The both of you! Nothing but a bunch of assholes throwing your weight around! Griffin was supposed to come over to my house tonight, but he never showed up, so I left him a message, and then it took him hours to call me back, saying he had to go to the emergency room, but he wouldn’t tell me what happened. I had to pry the truth from him.”

Andrew’s eyebrows furrow, his tone becoming guarded. “And what’s the truth?”

“Not the same story he’s going to tell the whole town. I know what he’ll say just to save face, though I’ve convinced him the part about flying objects is clearly an illusion from trading punches. Anyway, I just got out of the hospital. Believe me, I’m not happy with either of you shitheads, but I also wasn’t sure if you were still out here,” she says. “A friend borrowed my car, so I ran here to see if you were okay, and—anyway, never mind. I’m tempted to slap you, but at least you’re in one piece.”

Indeed. Between Love and Andrew’s combined retaliation, Griffin and his troll sidekick are suffering worse.

“A slap would be fair,” Andrew concedes. “Listen, I’m sor—”

“I appreciate that,” Holly sighs. “It hardly excuses what you did to each other, but my ankle wasn’t that bad, and I didn’t say you ‘rammed into me’ today. I swear, Griffin doesn’t drink often, but when he does—oh shit, your face.” She runs her fingers over the wound, the contact making Andrew flinch.

An emotional landslide pours through Love. She growls, then whimpers when the mortals’ hearts ignite like a pair of crystal flames. Andrew and Holly cannot see it, but Love can. She’s never beheld such a marvel before, for this is different from the breach of her arrows, which rupture hearts on impact. Yet she understands the signal.

Her head pitches toward the sky. As the two hearts on earth kindle, two stars flicker above.

Do you have a thing for the stars?

When Andrew had asked her that question in the archery range, she’d longed to be honest with him. In any realm, The Stars are many things: birth vessels of immortals, keepers of wishes, and tellers of fortunes, prophecies, and truths. Additionally, they’re messengers, funnels that deities use to contact each other. Whatever the message’s content, it is sensed by the recipient.

This missive has come from The Fate Court. And it’s a command.

The freedom to decide her matches is a pleasure. Not once has The Court, who trusts her judgment, demanded a specific pairing from Love. Yet it’s the rulers’ right to do so.

Besides Andrew’s death, there is another way to save everyone. It will protect her kind and spare him. This is the answer. This is what Love would want. She should be relieved.

Andrew and Holly. Fated mates. Her next match.

“No,” Love whispers.

7

Dawn arrives. Love is back on her branch, yet she cannot find a comfortable position. The bark is damp from the snow, and the sleeve cuffs of Andrew’s coat emit the scent of his skin.

Hoping to make herself useful, Love rifles through Andrew’s book. The story is weighty in her hands, split open like a pair of thighs, the font small despite describing such a tremendous moment. The heroine has just realized the hero she loves is also her enemy. Love rages at this shocking literary twist. A few days ago, she would have wondered why this presents an issue. Now her powers get a sensory kick, and she feels the rawness of the characters’ pain.

The apocalypse starts in her toes, travels into her womb, and wages emotional war across her face. She feels the ugliness of her wrinkled chin.

“Why do you insist on camping in trees instead of reigning supreme from your actual home?” a male voice drawls.

Hell on earth. Love slams the book closed. Naturally they’d show up now.

She glances to where Envy has manifested out of thin air, his massive body draped across a parallel bough. Clad in a modern pin-striped suit, he rests his back against the trunk, one leg bent and his wrist balanced roguishly on his knee. Along with light brown skin, irises like melted caramel, and a mahogany mane, his broad features are as timeless as a tree, as though he requires little beyond sunlight and water to thrive.

Love doesn’t answer his question. Instead, she reacquaints herself with the sight of the other deities surrounding her.

Wonder swings upside down, her legs hooked over a branch and a downpour of chestnut curls falling around her face. The female wears an off-the-shoulder blouse tucked into a pair of pants, a corsage of blossoms encases one wrist, and her exquisite figure is curvy, further enhancing her beauty.

Slumped on the branch above her is Sorrow, who scrutinizes Love through narrowed eyes. She’s outfitted in a black skirt shredded into different lengths, a pair of slouched boots, and a stitching needle pinned to her vest collar like a badge. Locks of charcoal grey hair match the goddess’s lips, and starlit flecks—akin to the ones floating in Love’s pupils—glint beneath Sorrow’s lower lashes.

In the tree to Love’s left, standing upright with one elbow bracketing the trunk, is Anger. He’s as tall as a fortress. Olive complexion, a jaw carved from granite, fingerless gloves stretching high over a pair of flaming tattooed forearms, and hoops flashing in his ears beneath a storm of shoulder-length, dark brown hair.

There’s more. Immortal weapons are intricate treasures, designed by their owners, and forged from whatever source they choose. Envy carries arrows made of glass. Sorrow, ice. Wonder, quartz. Whereas Anger’s choice vexes Love without end. The component of their weapons is the same—iron—as though the emotions are synonymous.

The five of them make up The Dark Fates’ most elite crew of archers. Such a pity this fact has never inspired a bond between them.

“Enlighten us,” Envy invites in a satin voice. “When did you decide to shack up with the squirrels? Fates forbid, but youhave a fetching glass cottage a stone’s throw from here.” He flicks his digits at the forest in disapproval. “Yet you prefer this.”

“I like being in the air more than on the ground,” Love clips.

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