Page 44 of Touch

She lifts her bow and aims an arrow at his sternum. Deadpan, Andrew steps forward, indifferent to the weapon pressing against his solid chest. “That night in the park, you called yourself a myth. In the bookstore, that paperback with artwork of Eros and Psyche triggered you. And don’t get me started on how many times I’ve fantasized about tracing the rest of your pussy with my pen, much less replacing it with my cock. My point is, you’re bewitching. You’re as strong as a fucking dragon, supernaturally gorgeous, and you wield a bow. Your arrows tear forests to shreds. And your name is Love, for Christ's sake. The mortal renditions of Eros aren’t female, and I don’t see wings, but fiction is fiction, and reality is reality. And who the fuck was that titan I saw you with?”

Love blinks. “He—”

“Never mind,” Andrew snaps. “I don’t give a shit about him. What did you do to Griffin? Suddenly, he’s acting like a reformed teddy bear. As for Ulrik, that bastard never lifts afinger except to jerk himself off, but this morning I found him wearing a goddamn apron and poaching us eggs. It may not sound like a lot to you, but it’s fucked up to me.” He stalks nearer, his height overpowering the room. “I’ll ask you one more time, Little Myth. And so help me, you’d better answer. What did you do?”

Love’s body is still recovering from Andrew’s confession about what happened in the bookstore. That he wants to pleasure her further with his pen, then fuck her with his cock. Maintaining a semblance of composure, she lifts her chin. “I will not explain myself to a human.”

He chews on her reply for all of a second. “Change that answer. Or I’ll change it for you.”

His livid mouth transfixes her. She contemplates the ways she might explore it through taste, texture, and movement. Her desire must be spreading across her face, clear enough for Andrew to see because his eyes detonate.

“I’m not a demon,” she defends, humiliated by the strain in her voice.

He nods. “And even if you were, I’m too far gone for that to make a difference.”

Love’s chest constricts. She wants that to be true, but she shouldn’t. She could also deny her myth, twist the truth. Yet everything within her won’t permit it.

What would it be like to finally talk to someone? To be known?

Her resolve withers. In the cramped space beneath her shoulder blades, Love’s wings flap with yearning, like something dusty and long neglected.

“I’m not Eros.” She lowers her weapon. “I’m Love.”

The mortal’s lips twitch, and he lifts one eyebrow. “We’ve established that.”

She reaches out her hand, pretending he can take it. “Then I dare you to come with me.”

Andrew’s gaze lowers to her outstretched fingers, then rises to her face. “Anywhere, Little Myth.”

15

Deep in the woods, a dwelling hides amid the conifers, its walls invisible to mortals. Every archer receives a new residence wherever they’re assigned, but she doesn’t spend many hours here. Although tailored to suit Love’s needs, the cottage isn’t truly hers. Everything within its translucent walls hasn’t been created by Love, whereas she favors her tree more, a place of her own choosing.

However, the evergreen isn’t safe from certain spies. Beyond the pines, her glass cottage emerges, glinting in the coppery late afternoon and nestled beside a frozen pond. If Andrew has the power to see her, he’ll perceive the cottage as well.

Vigilant, she halts a secure distance from the refuge and whips her arm out behind her, indicating for Andrew to stop. Interpreting the move as a sign of impending danger, the mortal hisses and maneuvers in front of Love, shielding her with his body.

This should not please Love. She isn’t helpless. Yet the protective gesture makes her concealed wings ripple in delight, even as she sidesteps him with a huff, aligning her stance with his.

Quickly, Love surveys the landscape for Anger’s silhouette. To her relief, the woods are vacant.

The sun descends, likely dragging the temperature down with it. Andrew is wearing a new coat that molds to his physique,with the collar turned up around his neck and the dark gray wool clinging to his broad shoulders. Inside, she lights a fire while peeking sideways as he removes the garment, his muscles inflating like an alpine range, making him resemble some manner of ice god,ifsuch a being were to exist. Truly, humans should not be allowed to look this attractive.

He drapes the coat on a chair while browsing the round hearth standing at the heart of the cottage and the plump bed situated on a dais overlooking the flames. The Guides who trained Love have sophisticated taste. It’s tradition for mentors to outfit an archer’s dwelling, to wish the archer well in each new territory they’re sent to, the gesture akin to a blessing.

While Love appreciates their generosity, she would have liked to decorate it herself. Yet her people frown on such actions. It would appear ungrateful to furnish this outpost to her own tastes.

Andrew fills the space with a fresh breeze, a crispness in the air that makes the dwelling smaller yet bigger at the same time. Love has never hosted a guest before. She busies herself, mounting her bow on the wall and then shrugging off her coat, with his note tucked in the pocket.

He watches as she tosses the mantle on her bed. “You don’t have a problem with the cold, but I still would have given you my coat.”

“Yes, you’re reckless about such things,” she says.

Because his fingernails are tinted blue, it will take time for him to thaw. Love contemplates how it would feel to claim his hands, cradle them against her heart, and run a finger in the valleys between his knuckles.

“Tea,” she announces abruptly. “I have tea. It’s… good tea.”

Without hesitation, he closes the glass door, his lips tilting into a roguish grin. “Tea of the gods. This, I need to try.”

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