By the time the final archer registers the disturbance and rushes Envy, the archer’s eye socket meets the glass arrow’s tip. With a maddened growl, Envy jams the weapon in. Crimson sprays from the guard’s orb, and he howls before Envy backhands him into a concussion.
They were following orders, doing their job. It’s not their fault, and Envy would feel sick with himself, but all he can think is one thing.
Sorrow.
He barrels across the divide and grasps the sides of her face, lifting it gently, red coating his fingers and transferring to her cheeks. “Sorrow.”
She moans, lost in dreams. Desperate, he assesses the chains. The star-dusted manacles glisten with enchantment, impervious to brute strength.
Envy swears, choking the links and gritting his teeth while he shakes, pulls, and wrenches. Nothing works. Other than a key, the only thing that will break through the manacles is a dose of Asterra Flora. This wouldn’t be an issue if Malice and Wonder were here, since they’d brought some of that barrier-breaking liquid with them.
Without that, there’s no chance.
The youth jogs into the garden, concerned. “She’s waking up.”
“Envy,” Sorrow mumbles, her crusted lids fluttering, blearily catching sight of something behind them.
The child gasps. Envy vaults around, his bow nocked.
Standing before them is a lanky male with a cleft chin and a gray braid dangling over his shoulder, his expression heavy as he peers at Sorrow, who blinks with unshed tears. Her Guide, Echo. Recognition plows into Envy as Sorrow’s mentor withdraws an arrow from his robe, the weapon forged of pearl.
An arrow that belongs to a member of the Fate Court—the female known for her gossamer, butterfly gowns.
Of course. Manacles can be unlocked by the tip of an arrow, so long as that arrow belongs to the one who forged the restraints. Envy and his friends had done this to Malice, back when he was their prisoner instead of their ally, before he became Wonder’s soul mate.
How did Echo acquire this arrow? He must have gone to great lengths and greater risk to smuggle the weapon from its owner’s chamber.
A treasonous infringement.
Nonetheless, Envy is hard-pressed to lower his weapon, maintaining aim as the mentor approaches and wiggles the arrow’s tip into the bolt. “The fact remains,” Echo begins, his shaky words held together by a thread, “we may no longer agree. But that doesn’t mean we stop caring.”
He kisses Sorrow’s trembling cheek. She gives a chalky, half-conscious sob.
The lock shudders open. On a wounded cry, she falls forward. Envy drops his weapons and catches her, cradling her limp form to his chest. They must have tormented her to the limit, because she passes out again, the scathing cuts along her arms clotting.
“Take care of her,” Echo pleads.
“Always,” Envy promises.
But the deity just smiles sadly. “Siren has a message.”
Envy stiffens. A lump forms in his throat as the deity indicates the garden’s west waterfall and parrots instructions to flee through the cascade. “She said it would lead you to a place you know,” he narrates.
An alternate route to the waterfall enclave? One that the Fate Court doesn’t know about? It has to be.
Siren may not be here, but she hasn’t forsaken Envy. His mentor must have conferenced with Echo sometime after Sorrow’s capture. Like the guards, they’d anticipated this rescue, prepared, and waited.
Based on the looks traded between Echo and the anonymous youth, this child had been in cahoots, too. Envy moves to thank them, but commotion from inside the palace stifles his voice. Scooping Sorrow higher into his arms, he nods with gratitude.
The child’s eyes prickle. “I’m sorry,” he peeps. “About the valley…I’m sorry.”
Just like that, Envy understands. The moppet blames himself for making the existence of Envy’s band known. “This isn’t your fault. You were brave. And you gave her back to me.”
The moppet almost smiles, then shoves Envy like he’s an idiot. “Go!”
The shouts ring louder, nearer. Envy swivels and bails across the garden, splashing across the moat. He glances over his shoulder once, only to find the mentor and the child have vanished. Hopefully, Echo will return that arrow before the sovereign realizes it’s missing.
But why wasn’t the Court here? If they expected a rescue, then why not station themselves close at hand? It seems highly out of character.
Projectiles slice through the air, zooming toward Envy. He dodges the first stream and crashes through the cascade, Sorrow nothing but leaden weight in his arms. Jagged rocks pierce his elbows and shins as he runs at a breakneck pace, evading more arrows.
Mist builds. Falls hiss around them.
Envy hobbles down the cavity, which bloats into the space where he’d stashed Love’s bow. On second inspection, he identifies the area as a grotto.
The sounds of pursuit ring from behind. He stalls, thinking, thinking. Carting the goddess’s weight through precarious terrain means he can’t outrun the ones hunting them. Not in the long-term.
“Shoot the rocks,” a voice mumbles.
Envy glances at Sorrow’s half-lidded eyes. She raises her arm and points feebly at an unstable foundation. “The rocks,” she mumbles, then collapses against him.
Having no choice, Envy sets her on a ledge and nocks his bow. Aiming at the crags, he looses an arrow.
A flurry of rocks crack, followed by more, then more, then more. They break from the walls and smash into the ground, the avalanche piling and filling the gap, cutting off the shouts and plummeting Envy and Sorrow in darkness.
22
Sorrow
It starts with whispers. It continues with shouts. It ends with silence.
A great big wallop of silence, swallowing everything that had come before—fragments of words, and soft hands clasping her face, and the loosening wince of manacles, and a pain that had made her cry out.
She had felt her feet lift off the ground, felt herself swing into the air, scooped into a basin of muscle. The air had rushed at her. Water splashed beneath someone’s feet, and she muttered something, then pointed before descending to an uneven surface, before the crack of sundered rocks shattered her eardrums.
And now, silence. And now, blackness.
And then, the surge of running water, the spray of mist across her arms. Relief coaxes a sigh from her. She stirs, curling into a fetal position as a soft patch of ground pads her hip, and a large form nestles into her. Her cheek rubs against a finely loomed textile, and an arm slings possessively across her waist, tucking her in.
Sorrow’s eyes flutter open. She’s in a cave, a stunning grotto comprised of three small waterfalls from three crevices. The area inflates from a nearby tunnel. Above, the ceiling sparkles. Around, motes illuminate the space, and tiny wells beneath each foggy cascade hurl strands across the walls.
Beyond one of the falls, she catches the translucent silhouettes of a wider pool and trees—the way out, beyond the deluge. That means she’s behind the veil, rather than in front of it.
Strong arms encase her. Slung across the ground, a masculine body aligns itself with her smaller frame, and a palm cups her jaw. She tilts her head, meeting his eyes, sharp rings that focus on her.
Envy. He stares at her as if he’s been doing so for a long time.
Everything comes back, gushing like a rapid. The attack on the pier. The moment she’d tossed the iron archery to Envy and then leaped into the crowd. The little archer. The figures standing beside him—Echo and Siren, the latter wrestling to help her, the former wrestling to prevent him.
The Palace of Starlight. The conference with her rulers. The bribe and the pain that had resulted.
The cuts. The shrieking torment of those cuts, made by her own weapon.
If her arrow wasn’t barren of its power, those cuts would have infused Sorrow with her own root emotion. Or the Court would have been forced to render them infirm. But si
nce she’s an exile, her archery has lost that magic. Thus, it hadn’t been an issue.
They’d carved into her. Why? Because she had told them, no.
Her rulers had given Sorrow an ultimatum, and she had told them to go fuck themselves. And she’d ended up hanging like a bloody marionette from a tree.
Then she’d blacked out. Then her Guide’s face materialized. The runty male archer had been there, too.
But most of all, there had been Envy’s voice.
His face. His touch.
The escape. The avalanche.
The rest had been a blur, including his arms, his breath on her cheek. Envy, who’d taken her ice arrow when they were young. Envy, who’d bullied her. Envy, who’d bedded her. Envy, who’d done a thousand things to her.
Envy, whom she’d done a thousand things to in return.
Envy, who holds her now. Envy, who must have freed Sorrow from the waterfall amphitheater and its throne garden, then escaped with her, then lugged her through the tunnels.
He taken her half-conscious advice and created an avalanche, caving them in from their attackers. She vaguely recalls him picking her up afterward, clutching her like a star, and coming to rest with her in this spot. It’s one of the few parcels of ground covered in moss, the foundation supple enough for them to sprawl across.
They had to have gotten soaked while fleeing. But now, their clothes are dry except for the specks of mist from the falls. It’s probably been a while, because the wounds on Sorrow’s arms have dried, a lattice of red-crusted lines.
His glass archery resides in an alcove, alongside a longbow and quiver of iron arrows. He managed to swim with Love’s weapons, managed to keep them safe. He must have stashed them here before going after her, because he’s easy to read, yet not easy at all.
Otherwise, she wouldn’t have foreseen the devastating look on his face, as he presently drinks her in. Nor the devastating feeling that bolts through her.
Like a numbskull, he blatantly ignored her demand to escape the masses, to leave Sorrow behind. He was supposed to wedge as much distance between them as possible, and track down their rebel band, and return Love’s bow, and set to battle. All of that, so Envy and their friends could bring this forsaken immortal house down.
Stubborn, moronic god! He was supposed to abandon her. Can’t he do anything right?
Motherfuck. She’s never been so happy to see him. This infernal archer, who has no clue that he’s got her heart clenched in his fist.
There’s so much to say, so much to explain. But she can’t right now, she just can’t. She can’t do anything but feel him, absorb him, want him.
Holding his gaze, Sorrow covers the hand that cradles her face, then traces his knuckles with her fingertips. He sucks in a breath. Her touch confirms that this is real, that she’s okay, and he’s okay. They’re together, stuck with each other as usual.
Relief washes across his features—a second before he launches at her.
Snatching her body, Envy hauls her against him. His mouth plants shaky kisses over her face—forehead, lips, chin—then down her throat.
Sorrow returns his kisses, her mouth desperate, unable to make contact swift enough. His collarbones, his jaw, his chin. Even his black mane, the unruly locks tumbling around him.
They gasp into it, inhaling harshly, scraping through one another’s hair.
Envy wrenches back, his rasp accusatory. “Why did you distract that crowd for me?”
Sorrow’s eyes prickle. “Why did you come back for me?”
Clinging like film, they watch each other. The waterfalls flood over the edges, spilling forth and slamming into the rocks. Pearls of light swim through the misted air, the world receding to this grotto.
Them. Alone. Free.
Sorrow’s stomach gives a sweet, maddening flip. Envy’s features twist, haggard and hungry.
An invisible coil breaks. They lurch, their mouths clamping together. Her lips pry his open, and his tongue swoops inside, licking her into oblivion.
The rhythmic flex of his tongue wrings a fractured moan from Sorrow as she matches him, taste for taste. Her digits claw into his roots and pull him closer. Their mouths slope, folding into one another, opening and sealing.
Writhing on their sides, his thigh pushes between hers. He splays her apart so that his leg grinds against her pelvis, the undulation producing white spots of flame behind her eyelids. In her core, a harrowing clench begins, pulsating and begging.
Sorrow hooks her leg over his hip and rocks back. More than her own desire, his groan is the highlight. The more she hears, the harsher her need.
She wants to love him, tie him up, tangle him up. She wants to break him into pieces like no one ever has, make him come louder and harder than he thought himself capable of. She wants his back to arch. She wants those hazel eyes to roll until he can’t remember who the fuck he’s been with prior, until he can’t remember that they’ve ever done this before.
Then she wants to rile him up all over again.
And again. And forever.
She wants to share herself. She wants to claim him.
Envy growls, the noise radioactive, like he hears her thoughts. He answers that call, hoisting her on top of him and then rising to a sitting position. The frenzied motion and the possessive sheen in his irises send tingles up her spine.
They pant against each other’s lips, their mouths trembling with a violent sort of yearning, their hands groping for clothes. Instead of unbuttoning his shirt, she peels it clean over his head.
His torso twitches, his flesh burnished in the half-light. Envy throws his head back as she sucks on his neck, her lips marking a trail down the center, catching each hitch of muscles. Her teeth pinch his dark nipples, until he curses and seizes her mouth once more, their tongues lashing.
Reeling away, Envy pops open her vest, her breasts dropping free. Her own nipples peak beneath his smoldering gaze. His pupils explode, traveling over the swells of her and then sweeping the garment fully from her arms. As he does so, he caresses each cut with his lips.
The affectionate gesture seizes Sorrow by the lungs. She gulps, a frightening emotion taking shape within her. It’s pure in taste and scent, like a clear spring.
When Envy straightens, she grabs his face and kisses him. He raises her so that she’s suspended higher, angling her mouth down onto his. She licks into Envy, swatting his tongue into a frenzy.
The male groan rumbling down her throat intensifies the craving. Her skirt flares around their hips, where his prick stiffens. That he longs for her in this way douses Sorrow with a heady dose of pride.
Only when he emits a pleading sound does she release his mouth. Heaving for oxygen, Envy’s hooded eyes rove over Sorrow. There’s a distinct possibility that she might expire from his expression, or from the drag of his thumbs around her nipples, causing the buds to tighten.
Envy taunts her lips with a brief, open-mouthed kiss, then moves to her chin, using the contact to urge her head back. Securing her waist, he ducks and hooks his lips around the first rosy tip. Sorrow whines, the reverberation hitting the cave’s ceiling and then swallowed by the rush of waterfalls.
She bows, gripping his nape for leverage and pressing herself into him. The wet tug of his mouth, punctuated by the jolt of his hips between hers, is a new type of misery. A delicious one that plucks at her center, the spot growing slick and starting to throb.
Humming, he swabs at the tip. Sorrow’s pulse goes ballistic, her whimpers escalating to cries. Any more of this, and her kneecaps will crack.
Envy seems to be aware of that, because he takes pity and switches to the opposite breast. Not that it calms her down. He works her into hysterics, works himself into a tangent.
All at once, he surrenders her nipple and gathers her to him, their chests flush and damp from the mist. His skin tints, as ruddy as her own. Their hearts turn into battering rams, threatening to plow through bone.
Envy links his fingers with hers, fitting
them together and giving her a smile that’s equally sheepish and insolent. Sorrow examines their interwoven hands, devastated by the visual. So this is what their stubbornness has been missing out on? This is what they’ve denied themselves?
Who knew it would feel this way? How have they gone without it for so long?
It’s never been like this with anyone. It’s never been this destructive, this sensual, this private, this joyous.
The pause is fleeting but crucial. They snap into motion again, unable to wait, too exasperated to bother undressing further. Sorrow helps him, her digits wild as they fumble with his trousers, releasing the closure.
All the while, their eyes remain locked, clicking into place.
They shimmy the pants just enough to expose him. His length springs free, lightly skimming the flesh at her center. Envy hisses, and she seethes, the contact wetting her anew.
Under the fan of her skirt, he palms her ass, and they wiggle to adjust themselves. With her thighs astride his, their pelvises bump into one another. He’s firm against her curls, poised and pent-up at her entrance.
Envy sucks air through his nostrils. His Adam’s apple bobs, his eyes skimming hers.
Sorrow trembles. She’s nervous, as if this is their first time.
Because it is. In all the best ways, it’s the first time.
She rests her palms on his shoulders. “I’m going to make you mine.”
He leans in, licking the seam of her mouth. “You already have.”
The declaration comes out like a secret, one much older than she’d known or could have imagined.
Sorrow’s heart detonates like a star.
Nevertheless, she has few seconds to react, because Envy braces Sorrow’s backside and lowers her onto him. The descent is slow, disastrous in pace. Her mouth falls open along with his, the slide of his prick stretching her, so that she clamps around him.
The sensation of him gliding into her dampness robs her of breath. The tip crests and hits a limit. A prolonged groan of satisfaction—of aggravation—spills from them. The combined echo dashes through the grotto and gets snatched by the waterfalls.
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