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I snap my fingers, and across the courtyard, one of my clones stumbles into existence mid-dance. Shirtless. Naturally. He points finger guns at us both, then proceeds to serenade a daisy.
Luna stares at him, then looks back at me. “You’re unbelievable.”
“I’min love, Luna,” I say, chest heaving with theatrical despair. “That makes me weak. Vulnerable. Swoony. You should be careful with that kind of power.”
“Silas.”
“Yes, my moon goddess?”
“Shut up and teach me how to block a blow.”
“Rude,” I murmur, but I step closer. And this time, I don’t make a joke about the way her skin glows in the heat or how shesmells like sweat and divinity. I just reach for her hands, guide them gently into position.
Too gently. My fingers linger over hers. The contact burns in a way I secretly crave. Our bond hums, low and steady, an echo of how close we already are. I feel her pulse beneath my touch.
And just before she can call me out for being sappy, I grin. “But if you try to grope me again mid-block, we’re gonna have to renegotiate this training agreement.”
She punches me in the stomach.
I make the sound of a dying hero. Collapse. “Abuse,” I wheeze. “She’s gonna kill me before I can tell her I love her again.”
“You already told me that.”
“Yes, but I haven’t made itweirdyet today.”
“You just did.”
Perfect.
Hand-to-hand combat?
Yeah, no.
That’s Wrath’s department, and while Icouldteach her how to disarm a man with just her thighs, the second she puts her hands on me again, I’m not going to be a very good teacher. I’ll be averynaked one. Possibly arrested. Definitely moaning.
So I do the mature thing. The Orin thing.
I take a breath, lower my voice to that slow, patient drawl he uses when talking about the sacred inevitability of death or betrayal or existential longing, and gesture at a row of gnarled, half-dead trees like they hold all the answers.
“This,” I say solemnly, “is Envy.”
Luna blinks, sweat glistening on her collarbone, brow furrowed. “That’s…a tree.”
“A treecovetingthe sunlight the others get,” I explain, nodding wisely. “See how it twists toward the light, choking out its neighbors? Classic Envy.”
She stares at the tree. Then at me. “Silas.”
“I’m channeling Orin,” I whisper, stepping closer. “Be respectful. The ancient sin of envy cannot be learned through violence. It must beunderstood. It’s afeeling, Luna. A devouring thing. It doesn’t strike. Iteats.Slowly.”
Her arms cross, but she’s biting the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing. Which means I win.
“Envy,” I say, pointing to my face now, “is watching you train with Riven and not being the one holding your wrist while you nearly break mine. It’s knowing you’re touching Elias, sleeping with him—talkingwith him—and not throwing him off a balcony because I love you more and you’re mine.”
Her breath stills.
Andfuck, I said it too quiet, too honest, too raw.
So I smile again. Bright, ridiculous. Like I didn’t mean it. Like it was a Silas joke, not a Silas truth. “But hey, who’s counting, right?” I wink. “Anyway, back to the lesson.”