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When he wants something, he says so. When he wants something, he gets it.

When someone like her looks him in the eye, someone like him looks back.

Also, there’s this: He’s a good person. No matter how much he ticks her off, and no matter how much she enjoys ticking him off, he’s a good person. She’s not too hardheaded to deny that.

In the midst of an impending war, the God of Envy loves life. He lives it to its fullest capacity.

What’s that like?

“What’s what like?” Envy murmurs, his voice a syrupy slide down her ears.

Sorrow starts, droplets falling from her lashes. “Huh?” she inquires. “Wait. Did I just say that aloud?”

“I’m afraid so. Do it again. Express something without thinking.”

“I’ll only say this once: I’m not a toy.”

“No, you’re a planet. You’re uncharted territory, an unexplored land mass that would take years to reach.”

Fuck. He’d said naughty, graphic things to Sorrow while embedded inside her, but his words have never held this seductive lilt, tilting at an incline that throws her off balance.

She clears her throat. “Thank you?”

He throws his head back and laughs, that guttural timbre rumbling across the pool. “You’re welcome?”

“You know we suck at this, right? We’re awful at being friends.”

“Is that what we are?”

“That’s what we should be.”

His arm snakes around her midriff, tugs her from the water tree, and drags her against him. The position forces her thighs apart, flanking the hard planes of his waist. She drips all over him, liquid raining down his torso. Another inch, and his pelvis will skim her core.

If that happens, they’ll both fall victim to mutiny.

He winces, the press of their bodies afflicting his ribs. It’s proof that he should back off. He shouldn’t be…he really shouldn’t be…clasping her like this.

She tries to wiggle away, but he holds her fast. Yet it’s not the flat expanse of his chest against her breasts that incites another stubborn clench between her legs. It’s when his forehead lands against hers in a gesture that borders on playful.

Too late, she registers that her hands have landed on his shoulders, cinching on to the muscled ridges, as if letting go means that she’ll fall.

She doesn’t want to fall. She will never fall.

To an outsider, they must look affectionate. That outsider would be very wrong. She reduces this to a horny whim, because Envy takes joy in horny whims.

“Do you still think we should be friends?” he taunts. “Do you think that’s all we can handle?”

“I think that’s a lot to handle,” Sorrow vents. “I think handling it will keep us pretty busy, so I think we should give it a try, and I think we should start now, because I think if you don’t let me go, I think your other cheek will get smacked.”

“I think I should call your bluff. I think I should ask you again. Is friendship the most we can handle?”

“It’s the most this war can handle.”

Quickly, he releases her. Sorrow drifts backward, plagued by the aching throb at her entrance, whereas he appears less than affected. Then again, gods as promiscuous as Envy usually do.

Again, they don’t really want each other. They’ve made that abundantly plain. This is merely them, stressed out and hankering for a convenient method of relief. This is them, dealing with an itch, when there’s no one else around to scratch it.

Still, what she’d said about this war? It doesn’t feel true. If they really wanted the upper hand in this conflict, they would take the legend seriously. They shouldn’t let Malice and Wonder’s struggle to find it be in vain.