Page 27

“Is mine.”

That’s all he says before paddling across the lagoon and hoisting himself onto the footpath encircling the water.

Sorrow hesitates, then swims after him and climbs on to the soil, where she drips all over the fronds. “Care to fill me in?”

“Let’s just call this my happy place,” he tells her.

“We don’t need to rest that long.”

“I was thinking a few days.”

“Are you kidding me? No way. That’s the dumbest—”

A pained noise skitters out of Envy like a stone, a replica of the ones that have lurched out of him since she recovered from her near-drowning. He twists from Sorrow as she leans over to see what’s wrong.

“Envy?” she asks. “You’re shaking.”

“Rubbish. I’m flexing my muscles to their best advantage.”

“And you’re as pale as an onion.”

“That’s offensive! My complexion rivals every indigenous model in the mortal world, in addition to most deities. Hey!”

Envy tries to shoo Sorrow away as she wrestles his hand from his abdomen. Lifting his shirt, she gasps at the welts on his torso, and the contusions puddling across his ribcage, and the disjointed grid of bones beneath.

Three fractured ribs. So that’s why he’d been laboring through the swim, and while dealing with Nostalgia, and while swimming some more. Why didn’t he say something and let her help him? Is he stupid or just plain unreasonable?

Envy yanks the shirt down. “Do you mind? I’d rather not showcase my ugly to the universe.”

“All this time? All this way?” Sorrow trills.

“The rapids were a tad aggressive when I dove after you, and a boulder might have gotten in the way.”

“You moron! You shouldn’t have carried Nostalgia. Lifting is the worst thing you can do in this condition. And how the fuck did you swim like that?”

Sorrow reaches out to assist him, but he smacks her wrist away rather prissily. “Did I have a choice?” Now that they’re on solid ground, he’s shutting down fast. “Last but never least, I’m the God of Envy.”

For crying out loud. Yes, smashing into a rock will pulverize a human but only dent a deity. And sure, immortal wounds heal faster.

But not in a few hours. Inferior anatomies need about six weeks to mend. For a god, it’ll take three days. He’s useless until then.

“You’re in no state to trot around like a peacock,” she insists.

“Stars almighty,” he grunts, spasming again. “I lugged you through rapids and our old stomping grounds. I transferred Nostalgia from one pier to another. I swam all the way here. I think I can make it the last five feet into the cavern.”

His large body teeters, forcing her to catch him. Looping her arm around his waist, they teeter inside. “I’m fine, dammit,” he mumbles, his mane spilling over his chest. “All I need…is a change…of fashion.”

“Get your hand off my ass,” Sorrow grouses as they lumber across the threshold. Honestly, it’s not his fault. He’s already checked out, his reserves officially drained. Thus, he can’t control where his arm or fingers land.

Lacy vines tremble out of their way. Upon entering the cavern, Sorrow curses every romance novel in existence. Gorgeous doesn’t being to describe the cave. Her feet sink into a soft carpet of moss that sprouts from the ground, around which a lustrous stream carves through. Instead of uneven, the smooth walls arch overhead, with swatches of fine cloth dyed in gem colors looping from the concave ceiling. A set of upholstered chairs, plus an array pillows and cushions, front a wooden hearth embedded into the nearest wall, while other hollows lead to adjacent alcoves.

Envy had called it his refuge. Clearly, he’d previously conjured some of these details, customizing them to his liking.

The water and walls give off enough atmospheric light, yet Sorrow casts about for an extra source. Focusing on the taper candles situated within recesses, she beseeches the stars. In response, the wicks flare, glazing her bedraggled clothes.

Her ankle-length skirt and vest are intact, although she’d sacrificed her boots in order to swim. Similarly, Envy’s unshod toes poke from under the tattered hem of his slacks. At some point, he must have relinquished them to the sea.

She glimpses his profile, with its patrician nose and wincing brows. He’s debating whether to nurse his shattered ribs first or replace his outfit.