Page 61 of Touch

At Love. No one else.

He cares that she cares. She cares that he wants her to care, but he probably doesn’t want her to know he cares, because he’ll think she only cares because he wants her to, and then he’ll be vexed, which doesn’t make sense because if she’s doing what he wants there shouldn’t be a problem. Then she’ll be vexed because he should know she wouldn’t fake caring for him, but anyway showing that she cares is as consequential a move as showing that she doesn’t care, because either way he’ll care even more, and that will make her care even more, and she’s not sure what any of this means because she’s lost track of her thoughts, which is infuriating, and once she gets riled up, it’s only a matter of time before he gets riled up.

Sigh.

“Hello,” she says ruefully.

“Love,” he intones without a shred of hesitation, speaking aloud regardless of his exposure on the street.

Remorse must show like a beacon across her face. Andrew’s irises thaw even further, and he opens his mouth, then rethinks whatever he’d been about to say. His nostrils flare, the impulse to distrust or defend her, to snarl at Love or slam his mouth against hers, evident in his countenance.

Like some form of survival instinct or self-preservation, he regards her in dubious silence. Love has a problem with that. In fact, she would need a Greek chorus to fully express what this does to her.

“Perhaps I should find a way to mark you, human,” she jests. “Then you’ll be forced to engage with me.”

Andrew’s pupils devour her whole. “You’ve made lots of marks on me. You just don’t see them.” Before she can appreciate the husky sentiment, much less atone for it, he murmurs, “What do you want from me, goddess?”

Goddess. Not Little Myth.

Love takes the question more personally than she ought to. “Last night, you were a guest in my home and broke my cup.”

It’s not the answer he wants. His face breaks apart, his expectations reduced to rubble. “And you broke me in half. The gods you raise hell with would probably say that makes us equal.”

An apology balances on the tip of her tongue. “My world has a destiny as much as yours does. This is what I was born and bred to do.”

“You’re saying it’s impossible to break the mold. Love, you could smash through any barrier with your bare fists. You aren’t shackled to your fate.”

“Without my bow and my power, I have nothing. What purpose do I serve?”

“Mind-fuckery aside, you could serveanypurpose. You’re fierce, clever, boundless, resourceful,” he growls. “You can do better than this. Youarebetter than this.”

“Fates, keep your voice down. I’m righthere.”

“Then make a choice!” He flings out his arms. “Make a choice to behere!”

The bustling street goes silent. Passersby have stopped to gawk, unsure whether to record the spectacle on their phones or put a hockey rink’s worth of space between the village’s resident author and themselves.

Love has the power to ascend cliffs, outrun motorcycles, and dance amid earthquakes. Her senses have access to the innermost feelings of others. She’s brandished her weapon, bound into the air, and struck a person down before her feet hit the pavement. She has loosed several arrows at once and hit her targets simultaneously, and she has taken shots in pitch darkness from a hundred leagues. Her eyesight and aim are flawless.

She is supposed to be incomparable. This crowd has nothing on her.

Yet she’s cognizant of their judgment. Though, not for herself. No, she worries about Andrew. She has just embarrassed him, exposed this man to ridicule, and it hurts because this isn’t her world, so he must take the brunt alone. She wants to rescue him from their prying glances but cannot.

However, Andrew shifts in front of Love as if to block her from their scrutiny. Never mind that they cannot see her. His movement is instinctive, and it endears Love to him as much as it pains her.

“Andrew! There you are!” Holly chirps, waltzing toward him with her halo of gilded hair and waving as if they’d planned on meeting in this spot.

It works. Her approach breaks up the scene, and the witnesses disband, scattering to different businesses throughout Evershire’s main square.

Andrew pays the woman zero attention. Instead, he twists gaze to Love as though nobody else exists. The longer they stare, the more his features pull taut, imploring her. “You’re capable of more than you know. But no matter what, I’m still your ally,” he murmurs under his breath. “If you want me, I’m here. I’m yours.”

Love has given Andrew sound reasons not to trust her. Yet here he stands, urgent to hear her side, to align himself with her unconditionally. Despite believing she can rise above her fate, he wants to understand, to know why she targets unsuspecting victims, unconcerned with them after her duties are performed.

Except the things he said moments ago throws each of her justifications into disarray.

You are better than this.

You’re capable of more than you know.

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