Page 55

As to his confession, it had sounded as though it wiped him out. It certainly has for her.

How long has she been idling? Long enough.

He’s probably snoring by now. It’s better to think of him snoring, rather than sprawling open-limbed and naked on that bed.

How does he sleep?

If she had stuck around after their smutty escapades, she would know the contours of his abdomen in rest, the rhythm of his breathing. She hadn’t bothered to pay attention to these things when they’d been camping in enemy terrain with her rebellious peers. Back then, she kept her bedroll as far from his as possible.

Okay. She needs to screw her head on straight. Her legs take pity and carry her to the depression that he’d haphazardly indicated. Pausing on the threshold, Sorrow suspects this must be a hallucination or a hoax.

Or this is real. This is very real, and Envy has beseeched the stars, customizing this chamber for her. Amethyst fleece blankets cover a bed, across from which a stack of shelves hold multiple lamps with pull chains.

She tiptoes inside. Atop the mattress, a garment rests across the blankets.

Sorrow runs her fingers across the black, hooded robe, discovering it to be cotton. However, it’s the softest cotton she has ever encountered, the sort of textile that might dance on air.

The final touch is a tumbler of currant nectar, propped on a table beside the bed. She waits for dubiousness to arise, but it doesn’t, because this is nice. It’s thoughtful.

Envy had gotten everything right. He’d remembered.

She would say this is weird. So fucking weird. But she’d passedso fucking weirdabout five conversations ago.

Now, she’s just tired. Maybe she’s a tad sheepish, as it takes several attempts to touch anything.

Stripping off the vest and skirt—thus far, she has neglected to replace her boots and has been opting for bare feet—she drapes them across a plush chair and musters the courage to wrap herself in the robe. It fits perfectly.

Sorrow drinks the juice with slow indulgence, the tart berries soaking into her tongue. Moving with tentativeness, she inches beneath the sheets and sighs aloud.

Unfortunately, the reprieve doesn’t last. Hours pass, during which she tosses and turns, obscenities crowding her mouth like gravel.

What’s her problem? Oh, she knows what her problem is, what’s keeping her awake. Her mind races, doing a mad, sacrificial sprint back to that moment.

Back to that thing he’d said. Thatthinghe’d admitted.

Is this why he never got sensual with her? Sorrow knows what her excuse is, and she recalls what he’d claimed in the waterfall enclave, but was he bullshitting? Is this the real reason he never tried to seduce her in the past?

Because she…because she…

They’ve not shared a single tender touch, or an angry touch, or a mesmerized touch. If he’d made a move, would she have welcomed it?

Sorrow drags her sorry ass out of bed, undoes her bun, and uses her fingers to comb through the tangles. As thoughts of pain and pleasure cycle in her head, she peels the bandage from her nose. To her relief, she doesn’t feel guilty about it. No, what she feels is ridiculous for having thought it necessary.

Then she recalls another embellishment that she’d admired: the painted eyelashes of a young male archer in the valley forest. That child, accompanied by the group who’d attacked her friends.

She conjures her own embellishment: tiny stars that trickle beneath her lower eyelids.

Using additional magic, Sorrow refills her tumbler, then drifts into the main cavern. There, she pads across the moss to the lagoon and slumps against the vine-draped entrance. She takes in the water, and the vegetation, and the surrounding footpath.

She inhales deeply—as a glass shatters from behind.

Sorrow wheels to find Envy’s silhouette arrested several paces behind her. He has cinched his long hair at the nape and replaced the silk pants with billowy ones of an indecipherable fabric. A filmy T-shirt outlines his muscles, those toned forearms bulging from the sleeves.

Fragments of a fluted glass litter the floor by his feet. As his eyes rake across her body, it occurs to Sorrow that the neckline gaps down to her navel, exposing a line of skin and the shadows of her breasts. Worse, her nipples have ruched against the night breeze, pinching through the material.

There’s that, in addition to her loose hair and glitter-painted eyes. And she has removed the bandage, which he notices with aplomb, his gaze sharp on the exposed bridge of her nose. He ogles that bare spot before returning to her robe.

Sorrow yanks on the sash. She considers whether to flop the hood over her head as well.