Page 67 of Touch

Anger glares down to where he’s suddenly clasping her shoulders, his fingers digging into her flesh. Thankfully, Love had disarmed when he charged. Otherwise, she would have unintentionally speared through him.

The deity tears his hands away, the momentum causing her to stumble. He releases her as though he’s grabbed the edge of a blade. At the same time, Love holds her ground while rubbing the places where he’d seized her, the areas throbbing.

Her respirations slam against his own, like weapons crossing. They’ve never stood this close before.

Strong. His touch is so incredibly strong. Supposing he were able to love, Anger would do so with the same vigor. If he gave Love comfort, he would do it ferociously as well. He would fuse her to his body, if she asked him to.

Another female is feasting on Andrew’s mouth. Meanwhile, Anger could be clasping Love to his frame. However infuriating the god is, she changes her mind about him and wishes for the latter scenario, for a pair of arms to envelop her—a hint of rage to reinforce her.

Love’s naked expression seizes Anger in place, her longing diffusing his rancor. Visibly, he senses her thoughts. The silent plea ignites his being and kindles a long-deprived need to the surface, his graphite pupils firing like bolts of lightning.

Radiating with more than fury, Anger stalks forward, his shadow consuming her own. While her heart beats for someone else, Love permits the god to approach, transfixed by his intensity and the commotion it causes low in her navel.

Stars, this is inconceivable. This is Anger.

Anger.

He stops only when his chest braces against her tits, his pulse pounding, the impact jolting through her. This is foolish and fraudulent on her part. Yet it’s also essential, acceptable, and attainable.

It’s not possible to touch a mortal. But it’s possible to ensnare a god.

Please. Just once.

Let her know this feeling once. She doesn’t care with whom. At least for this hour, Love allows herself to believe that.

Anger’s nostrils broaden, his visage an electric thing, the wattage of his gaze setting her alight. Loneliness and pain expel from her lungs, manifesting into a plaintive cry for help.

Perhaps it’s a dose of pity. Perhaps he’s simply aggravated. Perhaps he’s seeking to fortify her.

The noise has barely caressed the air, when the desire to indulge Love tightens Anger’s features. He explodes into movement, intent on capturing her dress, yanking her forward, and crushing her against him.

Somehow, Love knows this before it happens. This male will pry open her lips and growl into them, flex his tongue with hers, and tear her to shreds with his kiss. His fingers will thrash into Love’s hair and fasten her head in place, the better to claim her. Anger will kiss Love the same way he’s liable to fuck. Violently. Destructively. Because that’s the way of a rage god.

Regardless of her desire for gentle touches, Love would enjoy the variety. But not with him.

She blinks and staggers backward, holding up a single palm. “No,” she whispers.

Anger freezes, the wind dicing through his shoulder-length hair. The rejection splits him in half. One part confusion, the other part restraint. As the crew’s leader, he is surely doing this to alleviate Love, to ease her burden and resurrect her loyalty, and feasibly to release his own stresses on her.

Some blithe Dark Gods would call it a practical move, to kiss and inevitably fuck the defiance out of her. But in the end, this will only tarnish their fellowship. The aftermath of ruttingmight be inconsequential to Anger, but such a capitulation—such a regret—won’t be to Love.

None of this will staunch the agony. None of it will empower her.

She will not forsake her dignity. Nor abuse Anger’s generosity.

Clarity returns to the god’s irises, which blaze with horror, remorse, and vehemence once he scans her more thoroughly. “Fuck eternal, how did I not see…” He clasps the sides of her face. “Look at you! You’re pale, exhausted, nearly depleted. At this rate, your body will turn gaunt within days. This is not a cursed game!” he thunders. “This is your life!”

Her stomach churns. “You wouldn’t understand.”

A deprived expression rushes across his face, then his eyes narrow to slits. “I’m not going to help you be frail. Do what you must, or condemn us all.”

Love turns and walks away. To his credit, Anger knows better than to pursue her.

In the main square, she detours and loots a clothing boutique. Running her hands over a shelf of loungewear, she discovers a bundle of silk, the texture like spun water. Sleep shorts, a matching camisole, and a pair of embroidered panties.

Something new to cover herself. Something human.

She’s not wearing Andrew’s coat tonight, so the transformation is less cumbersome. Love changes into the silk garments, balls up her dress, and stuffs it into her quiver. She decides to keep being headstrong and ventures to Andrew’s house, settling herself on the porch and waiting.

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