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Her body shoots upward, breaking the surface with a deep, resentful arc of her vertebrae, her hair whipping back and slapping her skin with enough force that it actually stings. At over two-hundred years old, occasionally she forgets her own strength, the impact she can make on herself.

While straightening upright, Sorrow sinks her bare soles into the spongy foundation. Despite the swim, it’s a shallow depth, which seems appropriate.

The pond rises only high enough to cover her hip bones, the upper half of her exposed as she shakes out her sodden tresses. Droplets slither over her tits, the beads coursing an uneven path over her ruched nipples.

Is the water warm or cold? She wouldn’t know, since gods and goddesses have no idea what temperature is like. So why does her flesh pebble? Is the pond’s texture to blame? Or is it his gaze raking across her wet body?

Maybe this was a dumb idea. He’s not worth the effort, hasn’t been since they ended things between them.

The sylvan woodland crowds around the pond, encasing it in a dense oasis. It’s isolated, yet with her ex-lover’s whipcord silhouette and ginormous head filling in the gaps of space, the place shrinks further. He idles by the willow, whose roots claw into the pond and suck up moisture.

She grabs a few ropes of hair and twists them in a chokehold, excess liquid spilling from the strands. “Are you just going to stand there and gawk, God of Envy?”

His velveteen voice wastes no time, his reply airborne and curling into atmosphere. “Are you just going to stand there and let me, Goddess of Sorrow?”

Her feet are stalking in his direction before she realizes it, streams of water ejecting around her and splattering nearby mineral rocks and lily pads. His physique gets larger as she gets nearer, and she stops within smacking distance.

Burnished complexion. Long, black hair tied in a low ponytail. Straight nose, with an arrogant bump over the bridge.

Up close, Envy is what he’s always been: an immortal douchebag. Tonight, he has indeed conjured tweed trousers, plus a button-down shirt tucked into the waistband, the collar gaping open at the throat and the sleeves rolled up his forearms, the white material a stark contrast to his deep, almond skin.

Even while on a mission like theirs, he can’t resist sprucing himself up as if headed into a high-priced brothel instead of enemy territory. Of all their kind, he’s the only deity who dresses like the human version of a corporate hoe.

To avoid getting soaked, his trouser hems are jammed up his calves. The effort is pointless and weird since he’s precious about defiling his wardrobe. Case in point, Sorrow tilts her head at the ensemble. “Is that a wrinkle?”

Envy shoots upright from the tree trunk. Using his palms, he attempts to iron out the offensive creases in the pant hems.

She makes the mistake of snorting, which earns her a sideways glance. Returning to his original position, Envy crosses his arms over that broad, muscular chest, the expanse of which requires its own map. His hazel eyes sidle down her nudity, from the pert nipples to the glistening patch of dark hair between her legs. “You should pay attention to your own wrinkles instead. Unless you’d like me to smooth them out for you.”

Because she’s dripping, it would be hilarious to shake herself and spritz his outfit with algae. But that would mean he’s worth her time.

That would mean his words affect her.

For all she knows, he’s come here to coo over his reflection in the pond, but her presence has ruined it, just like he’d ruined her swim.

“You’re neglecting your beauty sleep,” she taunts.

“As if I need it,” he scoffs, patting the errant strands of his mane. “Now ask me what you really want to.”

“You’re only prompting me so you can give the answer thatyoureally want to.”

“By all means, then. What are we waiting for? Ask away.”

“What are you doing out here, pretty god?”

“Why? Do I get a spanking, my nymph?”

Yep. He couldn’t wait for an opportunity to be a hotshot.

Sorrow blasts him with a smarmy look. “Actually, I’m just humoring you like the needy tramp you are.”

Envy’s casual posture doesn’t change. Yet a clumsy light staggers through his eyes. Is it mortification? From him?

Oh, come on. The chances of that are as high as seeing him in a hoodie.

His self-adoration is common knowledge. During their brief foray into fuckery over the past couple of years, they hadn’t learned much else about each other, outside of how loud they could get. They’d shared about as many secrets as kisses, which is to say, zero.

The goal had been sex. Nothing more.