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Prologue

Envy

Now he knows what pain feels like.

And maybe one other emotion—a persistent feeling that’s been shadowing him like a pest, that’s been creeping up on him since the day he first lost his mind and touched her. That infamous moment in time, when he’d traced her sarcastic mouth, those lips painted a brooding purple to match her hair.

In the past, her chronic scowls, dreary clothes like an overcast sky, and perpetual middle finger used to nauseate him.

Hidden beneath the tough exterior? The watery texture of hurt. The wine-and-fig taste of rapture.

Those are the parts of her that he wasn’t supposed to discover. Those are the parts that came later.

She should mean nothing to him, because she’s the last person he has ever wanted. But instead of stopping, they’d continued to touch, and they’d torn each other apart. And then, because there’s always one more way to fuck up, they’d finished the job by tempting one another.

Yet his transcendence hadn’t begun until the instant he’d asked her a question:What’s your pleasure?

And in return, she had asked him a question:What’s your pain?

To this day, to this very night, their answers chip away at his soul.

Standing opposite each other now, they face off across a chasm.

Allies against enemies. Enemies against allies.

Somehow, at some point, the two of them had chosen opposing sides. He can’t remember how it came to this, how they ended up fighting for different endings.

With the battle raging across the summit, his fingers tighten around his bow. On reflex, she nocks her own weapon. As they aim at one another, he smirks mournfully. This was only ever going to go one way, with only one outcome.

That’s fate.

So now he knows what pain feels like, every shift of its curves, every sigh of its breath, and every glint of its irises. He also knows what that other, pesky, final emotion feels like. It’s a permanent one, a stain that he can’t rub off.

He recalls when destiny had intervened, pairing them against their consent. What’s a god to do when his match is the last person he can stand? He resists.

That’s what he does. That’s what hedid.

And what does she do? Naturally, she makes him regret it.

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Sorrow

It’s not the first time he has seen her naked, but it’s the first time she makes him regret it. Sorrow dunks her head beneath the water’s surface, liquid swirling around her, sliding across her calves and rushing up her spine. Dammit, this secluded pond would be paradise if a parasite weren’t spying on her.

She doesn’t have to look to see where he’s standing, and she doesn’t have to peek to gauge his posture, and she doesn’t have to guess how long he’s been here. She visualizes the large male figure shrouded by a web of branches and gem-tipped leaves. He’s casually leaning his shoulder against the willow tree, its trunk sprouting from the water because in this immortal realm, trees grow from water bodies as well as from land.

She’d bet his right nut that he’s wearing tweed. Preppy bastard.

He’s watching me, that fucker. But he doesn’t want to. Not anymore.

The reality of it congeals between her ribs. Sorrow batters the pond, beats the crap out of it, her arms and limbs swatting fluid out of her way until the cloying sensation abates.

And if it’s too hard for him to look away, then it’s still too easy for him to look away. Hard isn’t enough. She’d rather make it excruciating.

Submerged, she pops her eyes open and lets her vision adjust to the fluid around her, the strings of her purple hair weightless and floating. She slows her pace, breast-stroking with a listless rotation of hips and a lazy extension of her thighs.

Let him see everything.