Page 79 of Touch

His delectable mouth crooks. “By killing each other.”

28

The mortal is right. This is indeed pleasant. Love decides as much while nocking her bow, stashing herself behind an evergreen, and listening for his movements somewhere in the forest.

They’ve been at this mock-combat for an hour, turning the wilderness into a makeshift battleground, hunting one another through the woods, stalking each other with their archery. Part training practice, part archery competition, part mating call. Essentially, predator against prey. Though, the roles constantly switch depending on who steals the upper hand.

Thickets of snow cover the ground, potholed by their footprints. Branches quiver, some skeletal, others bristling with needle leaves. Late afternoon paints the woods in amber, and the world has gone silent.

At the snap of a twig, Love grins like a fiend. Twisting from the trunk, she fires. The arrow flies, slicing past Andrew’s head as he swerves with an inch to spare, his smirk flashing. He lands on a bended knee and looses a projectile. Feeling crafty, Love evades with a backward flip, the skirt of her dress flapping to reveal a naked backside and a patch of intimate hair.

As her soles hit the ground, she springs upright, with another arrow braced. But from across the divide, Andrew growls, “That’s cheating.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she sings with a tilted head, spreading her thighs like a tease. “Did we establish a rule against exposure?”

The mortal’s eyes drop to the vent between her legs, then scrapes his teeth across his lips and aims down the length of his arrow. “Cruel goddess.”

“Susceptible mortal,” she tosses back.

With a husky snarl, Andrew releases his weapon. Beaming mercilessly, Love bounds into the air, spins a full axis, and dodges the arrow. Dropping to the ground, she hunkers on all fours like a creature. Yet by the time she peers through the trees, the mortal is gone.

Her eyes squint. He’s decided to get sneaky.

Well. She likes that. Matter of fact, Love fancies the way he toys with her, as much as she does with him. Their sportive natures prove as diverting as watching Andrew stroke his cock and finding alternative ways to touch. Or rather, combat isnearlyas a diverting, a decent substitute for fucking.

A shadow moves in her periphery. Love pursues the specter while easing back her bowstring. “You have something about me on your mind,” she calls out. “I’m eager to hear it.”

From Andrew’s hidden spot, his voice feigns confusion. “And what makes the goddess think it’s about her?”

“It’s always about me,” she responds smugly.

“Fuck, you’re such a little—”

Love prowls through the trees, her mouth slanting. “For such a chivalrous human, you have quite an explicit tongue.”

His head emerges from an evergreen shrub, his expression impish. “You like it?”

“I wouldn’t be me if I didn’t.” But then she veers from another arrow and glowers at the mortal for taking advantage.

“I wouldn’t be me if I didn’t enjoy that answer,” he quips, then flings himself behind a trunk when her archery shoots past him. “You’re going easy on me.”

Love grunts. “And as usual, you’re holding back.”

It’s true for him. Not necessarily for her.

Though unlike at the archery range, Love doesn’t infuse her bow with small doses of infatuation rather than risk breaking his skin. Although the former would protect Andrew from harm, this mortal doesn’t wish to be controlled. And while that fate will be unavoidable soon, she’s not about to rob him of more free will than necessary. Also, she refuses to manipulate his feelings towards her.

For a human, Andrew possesses the advanced skill of a bowman, evading her maneuvers with finesse. In some ways, it’s a pity; nicking him has its appeal. Drawing blood would require Love to play nurse. Strip him down. Lick his wounds.

Perhaps later.

Andrew hollers, “I was thinking deities are full of shit. Your kind believe mates need to be perfect for each other. But that’s convenience, not love. It’s not the same as finding someone who knows your demons as well as your desires. Someone who challenges yet understands you. A person you can grow alongside, complexities and all.”

Love has donned the black coat over her dress. The open panels should hinder movement, yet it doesn’t for her. She tumbles forward and fires again, the arrowhead stabbing the empty spot where Andrew had been.

When she denies him a response, Andrew yells from another spot. “In my head, it’s all about you. But there’s more at stake. This is about your targets. People, as I like to call them.”

“Allow me to debate the matter. To humans, fate is this”—she flicks her free wrist—“this fantastical entity written in The Stars, which leads to orchestrated meetings and romance. Beingchosen and having their paths set for them makes your people feel special. It’s alluring until one puts a dress on fate and arms it with a bow. According to you, if this world could see me, its inhabitants would act on their double standards and hunt me down.”

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