Page 29 of Touch

That does it. Love refuses to be likened to a second-rate antagonist. With her teeth bared, she launches to her feet, steps into full view, and aims another arrow at the slit of skin between the stepfather’s eyebrows.

Andrew storms forward and halts behind his stepfather, his eyes drilling into hers. With a livid glare, he raises his flat palm and makes a furious cutting motion across his neck, indicating for her to stop.

Almighty hell. This is what her destiny has come to. She has been reduced to taking orders from a mortal who exercises more mercy than she ever will.

Bristling, Love lowers her weapon. Andrew releases a breath that gets his relative to twist around. “Whatever. There’s a sharp rock somewhere in here with your name on it. I need to leave in five minutes.” He charges away, his shoes rapping on the wood floor as he vanishes down the hall.

The instant a door slams, Andrew whips open the glass panel and strikes across the deck. “What the fuck are you doing? How do you know where I live?”

A grisly protest roars up Love’s throat. “I—”

“I don’t give a shit if he can’t see you. He could have aimlessly thrown that rock back in your direction and hurt you! Then I would’ve been forced to snap his neck!”

“Rubbish. Even if I were visible to him, that pissant is no match for me,” she declares, boasts, insists. “Nor is he worthy of you.”

“You don’t know Ulrik,” Andrew grits out.

Ulrik. So that’s the relative’s name.

She gestures with her arrow toward the direction in which he’d disappeared. “Yet you’re doing a marvelous job knowing each other.”

Andrew points to the contusion on his face. “Well, he didn’t fucking do this. As hot as you look holding a fatal weapon, tame the impulse before going on a familial killing spree.”

Raising her chin, Love packs away the arrow. “From an author, I had expected more credit and creativity. I could have done worse to him.”

“From a reader, I had expected more faith in my imagination. Several excellent guesses about your capabilities come to mind. And relatives aside, bragging about your mercenary nature shouldn’t be a turn-on to me, but here we are.” Andrew studies the bow. “How does it work?”

Condemnation, she’s hinted too much. Realizing the brunt of her error, Love steps back. Under no circumstances is she going to explain.

Yet this insolent man stalks nearer. “I can make you talk. I’d bet that dress of yours on it.”

While she searches for a clever response, his gaze runs down her figure like honey. “You’re in my coat again,” he murmurs, his breath gusting into the morning air.

Fates curse him. This mortal’s voice makes the intonations of everyone else seem mass produced—unvarying and unspectacular by comparison. She wants to store the sound of him in a velvet pouch and carry it everywhere she goes.

He intones, “You came to see me.”

“I—”

“Does this mean you’re pining?”

Yes, he’s teasing. And yes, she takes it seriously.

Love squares her shoulders. “Desiring a mortal is beneath my concern. We may have engaged last night, but do not get the wrong impression. I’m here for practical reasons, not for pleasure. As to your question, my arrows exist for numerous purposes.”

“Too cryptic,” he revokes. “You need to give me more.”

“As a matter of fact: No, I don’t.”

Andrew just stares at Love, the liquid mercury of his eyes daring her to reply with a different answer. The silent request pushes too many frivolous buttons, from her vanity to her impulsive nature.

Because she’s linked to her weapons, Love may infuse whichever function she wishes—be it requited or unrequited love, the sheer inability to feel that emotion, or the throes of lust. She controls the intensity of the desire.

Regarding love strikes, she must bond each of her targets to another. If not, they will become consumed. They’ll wander around lovesick, desperate for affection, losing their mind if they don’t find their mate.

This goes for deities. They cannot feel love inherently, but theycanfeel it through her arrows. Blessedly, such a catastrophe hasn’t happened.

And although her weapons have been forged for matchmaking, they can also deliver a piercing deathblow in battle, if she wishes. As such, Love could have impaled Ulrik’s intestines or condemned the man to eternal heartsickness—to the point of madness.

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