Page 21 of Envy

13

EVIE

“I’m sorry,” Tempest starts, but I hold up a hand, cutting her off.

“Don’t worry about it,” I breathe, forcing a smile. Everything she said is true—but it’s not like I can tell them that. This is a room full of sharks. Showing them my bleeding wounds will only get me killed faster.

I let my eyes drift past the kitchen to the living room, where the rest of them are sprawled across the couch. Mavros—the one with the bear tattoo—is here, along with the sloth guy, Noctis. Adrian, Dominic, and Bane are crammed together on the cushions, while Erik lingers in the kitchen near Tempest, like he always is. He leans slightly in front of her, as if expecting me to snap. I wonder if they’ve ever dated, but then my gaze lands on the broody, six-foot-four asshole before me—Silas, with the snake at his throat, ink covering his arms and fingers—I doubt he’d ever approve of his little sister and best friend hooking up.

Silas’s dark hair is tousled, a smudge of gold paint streaking through it. I flash back to the stacked canvases in his room from the first day, when I’d mistaken it for Tempest’s, and wonderwhat he’s painted today. Does he prefer realism? Capturing quiet, beautiful details others overlook? From the glimpses I’ve caught, I think he prefers impressionism, letting color flow and emotions bleed freely.

I almost ask him. But then I meet his eyes to find his pupils blown wide, and the chiseled planes of his body coiled like a cobra prepared to strike.

“Is my little sister right, Evie?” Silas asks.

“Don’t,” Tempest snaps, but he doesn’t look away.

They’re watching, all of them already knowing the answer. Frustration rises in my throat. If I dodge the question, it’ll only drag this moment out. I should’ve waited until they were gone to come back, but I had nowhere else to go. So, I lift my chin and stare into Silas’s deep green eyes, before fixating on the forgotten splash of cobalt paint across his cheek.

“I am a virgin,” I say. There’s no point in lying. I’m not ashamed—not ofthat. What makes my cheeks flush and heat creep down my neck is the fact that it’s never truly been my choice. Not really. Not when my family controlled every part of my life.

“My body is the only thing of value I can offer,” I add, watching as the veins along Silas’s forearms flex. The flicker of curiosity in his gaze morphs into fury. And for a second, I almost let myself believe hecares. “At least, that’s what I was told. Being loud was the worst sin a girl could commit.”

I meant to keep going, to pretend I’m unfazed by his anger, by Tempest’s sharp breath, but haunted memories slash through my mind. Jonathan’s hand on my thigh at lunch, his slimy fingers gripping me under the table while calmly discussing who my future husband will be with my parents.

All the while, Mother’s voice rings out, criticizing my dress, my hair, my weight.

I’m a disappointment. A doll not quite pretty enough. A failed investment. And suddenly it’s too much—all of it. Myfucked-up childhood. The gnawing guilt tied to beliefs I don’t even agree with anymore. The aching need to appease a god I still want to believe in, even as I claw at every barb of patriarchal control embedded in my soul.

And something inside me just… snaps.

“Nobody wants to hear what I think or how I feel. My dreams don’t matter. What I want to do, who I want to be—who I am—doesn’t matter.” A hysteric edge clings to my voice, and I don’t know why I’m spilling all this to a room full of strangers, but if I don’t get the words out, I’m going to scream. And if I start, I’m afraid I’ll never stop.

“Evie,” Tempest says gently, stepping closer. When I don’t shy away, she wraps her arms around me, holding tight as soundless tears track down my cheeks.

“You do matter,” she murmurs. “That’s all I was saying. I just don’t want them to be a bunch of dickwads to you.”

A harsh laugh scrapes from my throat as she draws back.

“Tempest is right,” Erik adds as the others rise from the couch to join us. “We mean well, but each of us has our own… vice.”

The one with dark skin and striking blue eyes—Dominic—brushes a finger over the inside of his wrist, drawing my gaze to the tattoo there: the head of a demonic goat with long ears and spiraling ram horns, set before the number seven.

“That we do,” he says, flashing a sinful smile. “I’ve never been great at controlling my lust.”

Tempest rolls her eyes. “Dominicisalways thinking with his dick.”

“Hey,” Dominic protests, half-hearted. “It’s a real struggle sometimes.”

“Don’t act like you don’t love it.” The guy next to him chuckles. He has dark hair, tanned skin, and a strong nose—the one with the orange hellhound if I remember correctly.

“You’re one to talk, Bane,” says the one on Dominic’s otherside. His golden eyes gleam beneath a tangle of thick russet hair. “Gluttonous to the end, this one. But I can’t judge. I’m pretty greedy myself.”

Laughter hums through the group and I smile along, knowing they’re referencing the Seven. But even as the reminder stirs tendrils of fear in my gut, I refuse to make this night more awkward than it already is.

“Quit it, Adrian,” Tempest says, shooting a glare his way.

Adrian holds up his hands in placation, pale skin splashed with freckles, covered in tattoos. “What about you, Erik? Anything you’re proud of lately, or just your reflection?”