He and Love watch the priceless sight. His heart overflows at the vision of pink hair and sparkler eyes. Meanwhile, Love’s devoted gaze proves she’s experiencing similar sensations toward Andrew.
Then they glance sideways at one another. In that look, he gleans what they might have shared, if things had been different. If history had forked in an alternate direction.
He senses Love acknowledging it as well.
Quarreling that eventually yields to bonding.
Bonding that eventually matures to coupling.
Their mouths antagonizing, even as they kiss. A squeeze of his hand, a swat of hers. His face burrowed in her hair, trying to staunch his temper whenever she’s being obstinate. Her face lifting with mischief whenever he’s being ornery. An everlasting tug of war that ends with one, or both, of them crashing to earth.
They would have bickered more than laughed. They would have been fine with that.
Until it got toxic. Until they’d overdosed on everything they couldn’t give each other, didn’t know how to.
But for a while, it would have been the romance of Love and Anger. And so they let the vision pass through them. It’s a little uncomfortable, a little nostalgic.
There and gone. Then and now.
When it’s over, there’s a reconciled truce, a closure. A friendliness that’s overdue and reflected in Love’s face, which Anger returns. Because they would have ended up here, cycling back to the ones who matter the most.
The ones who have stolen their hearts.
The ones who would have done so anyway.
“You did good,” Love quips, nodding toward Merry’s profile.
“So did you,” Anger replies, inching his head toward Andrew.
“Talking about us behind our backs?” Andrew jokes from his spot on the hill. “No fucking fair.”
“Is he always this snarky?” Anger asks, irked.
“Absolutely,” Love says, pleased. “Does that aggravate you?”
Without waiting for an answer, she skips toward Andrew, who flirts, “Get over here.”
Love hops into his arms and kisses him.
It’s ironic that she, of all people, used to be ignorant of anyone desiring her. But hers is the most complicated of emotions for a reason. As the first—a guinea pig in the Court’s mind—she’d been trained to identify affection between others, to dish it out for others.
By contrast, she’d never been taught how to understand it inside of her. She’d been so focused on everyone else that she hadn’t recognized her own heart, much less when she’d won someone’s love, because she’d never previously experienced it for herself.
Not until Andrew.
And finally, sincerely, Anger is gladdened for her.
Love dashes off, beckoning Andrew to chase her around the telescopes, the pair hopping and hobbling like playful creatures. Like they’ve done this many times before.
Then there’s Merry, standing under the hill’s central oak tree, staring at Anger. A bright star, a greater wish than he’d started with. He strides over to her, taking her face in his palms while she encases his hands, their gloves sliding together.
It’s the only worth he seeks. It’s the only strength.
The seven rebels scatter down the hill, hooting and shouting, uniting and defying. Their constellation sprinkles across the carnival, spreading out onto different paths, racing toward the rides. Love and Andrew, hand in hand. Envy and Sorrow and Wonder, baiting each other mirthfully.
The Carnival of Stars welcomes them, siphoned with astral light.
Anger and Merry trade conspiratorial glances. Without a word, they sprint toward the only location that make sense. The place where they began.
Launching onto the carousel, Merry claims the Sagittarius. Anger, the Capricorn.
A music box of sound cranks overhead. Glossy painted figures careen up and down while the world spins, blurring around them.
For now, nothing else exists but this.
The wind tosses her hair. He reaches out to touch it, loving what that does to her eyes.
Merry rests her profile against the brass bar. “You’re looking positively spellbound,” she says. “It’s a glorious vision, surrounded by the glow of lights. What better place to be awestruck?”
“I can think of one other place,” he says, pressing her hand to his beating chest.
Right here. All you.
“Mmm,” she teases, leaning sideways and coyly sliding those lovely hands— covered in fishnet fingerless gloves—into his hair. “You know, we never finished what we started in this spot. We’d meant to tell each other everything. So what else are you thinking?”
He meets her halfway. “That I’m in love with you,” he murmurs against her mouth.
Visibly, the declaration robs her of oxygen. “That is certainly everything,” she breathes just before his lips slant over hers.
Epilogue
Anger
The stars are out.
Standing atop a building, he stares at a blazing carnival horizon. A retired canopy of watercolors—pinks, purples, and blues—has seeped into the heavens. Now there is only a dome of ink overhead.
The celestials writhe like shards of glass. Up there, far up there, one of them is thrashing. Not because it’s trapped, but because it’s free, tearing itself from the confines of the sky, its burning gaze diving to earth. Not to command, but to share itself with the mortal realm.
Beside his star is a luminescent one. A soul mate shining with possibility. It’s bright, blindingly bright, too bright.
Neither is perfect. That’s why he trusts the vision, admiring it from a respectful distance.
The stars have been watching his journey from the beginning. They’ve been ever observant, wise, secretive. What they’ve concluded of his arc, he can’t say. All he knows is that they haven’t intervened, told him what to do, and that’s why he keeps faith in them. That’s his choice.
All he knows is that he’s happy. He’s whole.
It’s a tranquil evening. An intermission in which mortals have either retired to their homes, vacating the streets early in order to focus their lenses out windows. Or they’ve gathered at public telescopes to view the constellations, musing to themselves about assorted myths and realities, wishes and choices, emotions and actions.
Fates and free wills.
They absorb both in harmony, accept both in harmony. If they can practice such an art, why can’t deities? Someday, immortals might exercise that same capacity.
The breeze fans through his hair, the ends tickling his shoulders. He inhales an undercurrent of vanilla trying to sneak up on him. There’s a subtle grind of wheels against pavement, barely audible.
Anger relishes the answering surge in his blood, spiked with its own intoxicating light. He loves the anticipation of it, a recurring sensation every time she draws near.
Grinning to himself, Anger whips around. Before the revolution is complete, before he even halts, his arrow is nocked toward the sidewalk below.
And so is hers.
She’s poised a half-dozen stories below. Her neon longbow tilts toward him. One eye squints shut, the other sparkles. That iris is the exact shade of her hair, the short tresses tied into a ponytail.
She wears a dress foaming with pastel color, the layered skirt comprised of wide fronds around her waist, which end above the knees, above a pair of sneakers. Earrings that remind him of chandeliers sway from her lobes, flashing at him the same way his stud and hoop are probably flashing at her. Her mauve headphones clamp loosely around her throat.
Merry sends him a kiss, her lips puckering and hiding a gap in her teeth. He narrows his eyes, feeling them grow molten with intent. He wants to swab his tongue between those lips, between that gap.
Anger’s target is savvy enough to perceive the windswept tumult of his desire. Similarly, he notes the change in her breathing, her bodice shifting its rhythm.
They hold their positions, keeping each other in range,
aiming true. Then they quit, slanting their heads from their weapons and smiling at one another.
And they’re off.
He loves this part. The race and rush of being with her.
He vaults across the building’s roof. Parallel to him, she blows across the city on her skateboard. They compete, they challenge, they charge. Merry zooms around corners, her board spiraling in the air and dodging his shot, her own arrow flying and slamming into a second arrow from him, pelting it out of the way.
Her wheels smack the concrete and slice across the ground. They keep soaring, matching each other’s speed and elasticity, testing one another’s reflexes. He leaps, pivoting from her next arrow, twisting to evade it while jumping to another parapet, another terrace, another gable.
Atop structures, gardens thrive and telescope silhouettes point at mysteries. At this momentum, Anger’s shirt thrashes around his body like a storm. Merry’s dress billows like a sail. They plow through the historical city, their arrows propelling and missing, then reappearing in their quivers.
The observatory rises ahead of them.
The way home. Their home.
Anger’s limbs scissor the air and touch down, hitting the rooftop. Below, Merry’s skateboard rides a current and uses a sidewalk incline as a springboard, shocking him with her ascent. Reaching these heights is a new trick that she’s learned, but he still can’t quite believe it.
She lands and slides to a halt in front of him, her pink locks whisking around her chin. Her expression gleams at him, a blush puddling her cheeks.
They’re both panting, their lungs pumping.
He knows other ways to make her lungs pump.
“You were holding back,” Anger lectures.
“I was being romantic,” she defends.
He’s aware of that, and he adores that, but it won’t help train her. Still, she’s doing well, so very well. Better than he’d hoped after only a year of practice.
Their rebellious class had collectively beseeched the stars. Eventually, the stars had passed judgment and granted Merry the belated liberty of creating her own bow, forged of violet neon. It lacks the ability to wield an emotion—only Love and Anger, both restored, can do that now. But like their outcast companions, her weapons have the fortitude to immobilize.
At this rate, she’ll make a fine archeress. Not as masterful as a deity bred in the Peaks, but accomplished, nonetheless. Her skateboard skills compensate for the rest, rendering her a difficult target to strike.
Their group is still planning, still working toward a plot. They’d all realized the best tactic is a patient one. There is plenty to figure out. In order to contend with the Fates, they’ll need time, the luxury of which they have in abundance.
The longer they take, the more off guard their adversaries will be. The Fate Court will assume their constellation of outcasts has given up.
In the meantime, Envy and Sorrow bicker, then spy where they can, then take breaks to hump each other in private. They call it Fates with Benefits. The absurd terminology frequently causes Anger to gag.
Wonder researches. And she contends with Malice, who’s shackled in the library vault, under their surveillance. Perhaps he’s bidding his time. Perhaps not.
They all meet and train, together and separately. While none of their weapons can fatally pierce flesh, they work with what they have, supplementing ways in which to use them. They redefine the art of fighting, of targeting, of living. They observe mortals from alternate angles and recruit other immortal exiles.
And some of them love.
Love and Andrew. Anger and Merry.
A gentle movement returns Anger to the present. Tucked between the fronds, in an aurora of starlight, Merry’s dress is a wash of tints layered like a cake. Anger wants to strip that confection from her body.
The next time we touch, it will be moments before I’m inside you.
He makes sure that his expression communicates as much.
She makes sure that her intentions are clear, too.
The next time you’re inside me, you’ll be loved.
Slowly, he lowers the archery to the floor, setting it against a shrub. Likewise, Merry disarms herself and begins to fidget, her fishnet hands riveting him.
Yearning to peel the black netting from her skin, he stalks toward her.
When he halts within grabbing distance, her skirt brushes his knees. That alone causes a reaction in his pelvis.
“I can be romantic as well,” he says in a husky timbre.
“Wait,” she peeps, holding up her palms just before he can snatch her. Trotting from the hedges, she vanishes around the corner. A few moments later, music floats across the deck, the kind of song that might have been written in space, a melodic and spectral chime.
Anger chuckles. Of course, she’s setting the mood. It’s only the sporadic occasions when he takes her off guard, takes her against a wall, takes the drama out of her and replaces it with rawness. But always, whether urgent and passionate, leisurely and long, their bodies are always honest. Always them.
She’s barely pranced back around the corner when he grabs her. Seizing her hips, Anger hoists her against him, and then her mouth is his. And his mouth is hers.
His tongue whips into that endlessly wet chasm. Merry’s hands hook on to his shoulders, her frame melding to him. Sucking in air, their lips fold and roll.
Without breaking the kiss, they travel deeper into the haven. Life smells of vanilla and sandalwood. Candles flicker, and the Home sign beams.
Tell me a word—a meaningful word, and I’ll request it for you in neon, via the stars.
She’d made that offer once, when they met. But he doesn’t need to answer her, because she’s already given him that word a thousand times over.
They mumble and whisper while tearing off clothing, but he’s unsure of what they’re saying. Greedy things and loving things pile on his tongue, which thrashes into her mouth, punching out a rhythm that matches what he’s about to do to her.
At last, they’re naked on his bed, surrounded by a million sources of light. A blanket swathes around bare flesh while Anger thrusts into her, their hips riding each other.
Merry’s legs knot around his waist, cradling his weight as they pitch across the surface, in tune with his restless pace. Their skin slides as she arches against him, her breasts pointed on his torso, her waist rolling with his. She’s so open, and he’s so deep, and they’re so close.
He hisses, strokes into her, into that tight place that pools around him, that holds on to him. It’s fast and languid, hard and soft.
When she cries out, his mouth catches the sound. His length chases the same euphoria, his body working, his pace quickening.
Just like his heart.
“It’s yours,” he promises.
“And it’s yours,” she vows.
They gasp those words over and over. Their hearts, which belong to one another, melt into this space, this niche, this room that she’s created for him.
For them.
Because this is love. This is being in love.
Their mouths split in climax, emitting the truest sounds he’s ever known. He’s torn between screaming and sighing with pleasure—and this is it. This is the most beautiful way to rip apart, not the pang of losing, but the bliss of receiving. This is the only moment when it’s worth being torn.
And now he knows what that feels like.
***
Thank you for reading Anger & Merry’s story!
Ready for Wonder and Malice’s story?
Tempt (Selfish Myths #3) is coming in October 2019!
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Acknowledgments
First, this: Big celestial group hug!
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If you’ve been here from the beginning, you have my everlasting gratitude. Because finally, right?
Whew, okay. So back when I first wrote Touch, I hadn’t planned on it being part of a series. But to my astonishment, a bunch of you wanted Anger’s story. And truthfully, I couldn’t get his journey out of my head. Where did he go after his banishment? What did he do?
Who did he meet?
At last, I got a spark of inspiration and started scribbling notes. And let me tell you, I was nervous about returning to this world after so long.
Could I pick up where I left off? Could I do these characters justice?
Yet once I started working on Anger and Merry’s story, it took off in a mystical way. As a writer, it’s wonderful to be surprised like that.
I loved reuniting with the infamous five archers and exploring more of their starry universe. And I’m so excited follow them deeper into this battle of fate versus free will.
As always, I’ve written from my heart, doing my best to make Anger’s story worth the crazy long wait. I loved where this exiled god took me, and I hope you loved it, too.
On that note, I’m lucky to have a constellation of supporters by my side.
Thank you to Esther Gwynne for casting your magic editing spell on these pages.
Many hugs and thanks to Michelle, Jessa, and Candace for your friendship and beta powers. You are all goddesses.
Thank you always to my beloved family, for being such bright stars.
To Roman, for being my favorite destiny of all.
And to you glorious readers, who’ve cheered for Selfish Myths. From my ARC team, to the Myth & Tricksters reader group, to every person who’s embraced this series, you make this gig worth every moment. It means the world, and the moon, and the stars.
See you in Wonder and Malice’s story…
About Natalia
Natalia Jaster is the fantasy romance author of the Foolish Kingdoms & Selfish Myths series.
She loves to dream up settings that are realistic yet mystical. She loves when raw angst collides with lyrical beauty, and when sweetness escalates to hotness. And she definitely loves treading the line between YA and NA.
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