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Is this place still home? Or where is home now?

Is it a dwelling, or a landscape, or a realm? Or is it eight figures who’ve become family? Or is it a person?

A stroll along the boardwalk fails to alleviate her insomnia. To make matters worse—ugghhh—she takes the wrong path and ends up passing Love’s home, and then Anger’s home, and then Wonder’s home. Again, so much for rest. Though they should be wiped out, Sorrow detects the subtle but rapturous sounds drifting through the windows of each residence.

Allegedly, her band has been celebrating.

Love and Andrew’s giggles brim with a private afterglow as the goddess’s bed squeaks, in what can only be the sounds of play. Likely, they’re on the verge of chasing one another naked through the house.

The noises coming from Anger and Merry’s love shack harmonize like a song. The god’s tempestuous groan defies his injury, while his soul mate’s rhythmic, joyous gasps indicate that she’s on the receiving end of Anger’s tongue.

And Fates, forget Wonder and Malice. Based on the thrashing sheets, and the muffled taunts coming from Malice, and the panting moans from Wonder, they’re competing for who can dominate whom, which means they’ll be going at it for a while.

Actually, it sounds pretty hot.

Sweet, and passionate, and hot.

Sorrow can’t take it. The only place she thinks to go is the only place she wants to go. But since it’s not exactly around the corner, she flaps her arms wildly at the next dragonfly that zips by, stunned when the creature obliges.

Okay. This will take some getting used to.

Sheepishly, she expresses her gratitude before hopping on its back.

When the dragonfly deposits Sorrow at her destination, she discovers the cavern is vacant. She tiptoes inside, inhaling the fragrances of jasmine and myrrh.

That’s when she feels it. The peace, and the belonging, and the memories of three isolated days with the last person she’d ever wanted to be stuck with.

She has two options. The guest hollow he’d set up for her, with more fleece bedding, a collection of lamps, and that sensual robe she’d once worn, which had made him drop a fluted glass.

Or another room entirely.

Sorrow slinks into his sleeping chamber. Feeling greedy, she crawls into his bed, linen enveloping her body as she dissolves into blackness. And when she stirs with a grumble, hazy afternoon stars leak through the chasm.

Also, she’s not alone anymore.

The mattress sighs beneath a muscled weight, which curls like a shield around her. One arm has slid around her middle, tucking her spine against his chest, while the other rests above her hair, fingers brushing through the roots.

His shirt sleeves are jammed up his forearms, exposing almond flesh that clashes with her chalky skin. His knees bend into the coves of hers, and a pair of full lips brushes her temple. She knows the width and contours of his frame, and the pacing of his breaths, and the shifts of his clothes.

Tears spring to her eyes. Maybe she has the same effect, because when he speaks, his tone is haggard. “Have I ever told you I’m a fan of shredded skirts,” he chokes out. “They’re right up there with loafers and ascots.”

Sorrow half-chuckles, half-sniffles, which is better than letting snot drip onto his wrists. “Have I ever told you that you’re full of shit, Mister Narcissus?”

Envy’s chest rumbles. “That’s my nymph.”

“Who said I was your nymph?”

“You did,” he murmurs, his voice drenched with longing and something very close to eroticism. “You did in the middle of a star shower, unless my ears were deceiving me.”

He’s accurate about the former, but she hadn’t been sure what to expect afterward, or whether they’d broach the subject.

Those words. Those three words that she’d shouted like a maniac beneath the siege.

They’d chosen this, hadn’t they? Just like the legend had declared?

So why is it so terrifying to acknowledge?

Envy swallows, his whisper trailing down her lobe. “How long have you known?”