Page 10

Malice

Right on time.

She storms in on the heels of a mushroom cloud, hair thrashing around her face and furious indignation painting her irises a deeper shade of green.

The color is hard to classify, darkening from the verdancy of clovers—the shit idealists believe grant wishes—to military olive, something a human army would wear while strapping themselves with machine guns.

It’s fitting since the goddess comes at him like a firing squad, ready to desecrate his soul.

Too bad that’s already been achieved by the motherfuckers who rule over fate. Otherwise, he might let his captor turn him into a cadaver for her trophy shelf.

“Ah.” Malice kicks back in the rocking chair, shackles clanking. “There’s my favorite rival.”

“Where is it?” Wonder seethes, fists swinging like pendulums at her sides.

He pretends to reconsider his words. “Hmm. Or maybe you’re my favorite daffodil. Rivals are motivating, but daffodils are poisonous.” “I said, where—”

Except once the goddess barges through his personal bubble, she grinds to a halt, and her tongue stops working.

Those eyes inflate, shock dismantling her features with the force of a wrecking ball.

The sight of him shouldn’t have been hard to notice from far away, but her grand entrance had been charged with more energy than a nuclear weapon, so she probably hadn’t registered the first few seconds.

Her pupils glaze as they race across his features.

Triple the number of chains tack him to the chair, which is also bolted to the crimson-stained floor.

Technically speaking—not the right term actually, since he’s thinking inside his head—this is why he hadn’t been able to swing the chair much when she entered.

In that regard, Malice had just been flattering himself.

Anyway, with these many irons he looks like a glorified postmodern mummy. But hey, at least the crew didn’t muzzle him.

As for the bruises, split lip, his right eye swelling wider than his balls, and the red that’s likely bleeding in his left sclera, she shouldn’t be surprised.

Has she noticed the size of Andrew, Anger, and Envy lately?

Malice is on the same level, and he can take half a dozen gods in one shot, but not in this rare context.

Wonder had started it in the library. The goddess’s teeth had damaged his ear, her fists had cracked his jaw, and wrath made him sloppy.

Then her clan finished things, polishing off Malice like second helpings.

Two of those male specimens originated from history’s most elite crew, each of them alone equating to the number of deities Malice could have shot down.

Add Andrew and his bottled-up ferocity toward their prisoner, and Malice hadn’t stood a chance against the alpha triplets.

“They promised,” Wonder begins, her voice slicing through the vault. “Our crew agreed. No torture.”

“This wasn’t torture.” Malice hitches one shoulder, ignoring the stab of pain. “It was a negotiation. Trust me, I know the difference.”

Wonder winces as if aware how much he means that. “You may not see the distinction since that would require having a conscience and a sense of decency. You weren’t drawn and quartered, but a beating is still torture. Trust me, I know.”

His eyes click to Wonder’s scars. Retinas sparking, he raises them back to her features.

“Your bodyguards asked how I got free, I kept my mouth shut, and they threw their weight around. Well, actually Andrew and Anger did most of the roughhousing while Envy studied his manicure. It’s only a little horseplay, Wildflower.

Most deities aren’t as liberal in their definitions of torture, despite how creative they like getting with the methods.

In Andrew’s defense, I did try to kill his mate, so he gets a free pass.

At any rate, gods heal fast, if you hadn’t noticed. ”

She glowers. “Do not patronize me.”

“And don’t do me any favors.”

“What does that mean?”

“I’ll give you a minute to take back that useless question.”

She knows what the fuck it means. If Wonder hadn’t been restrained, she would have done worse in the library stacks. Likely, Malice’s nuts would have been castrated, and his optic nerve would no longer be functional.

Okay. He’s exaggerating. It’s what he does.

Wonder had mopped the floor with his ass, but she’s not a mutilator. Nevertheless, she gets the drift. Time and again, she’s proven to be a formidable opponent against his strength, as well as his turns-of-phrase.

And sure, he brought the whole attack on himself, but this goddess also deserved it.

Malice hadn’t been interested in minding his manners, and Wonder doesn’t need to repent for her crew’s actions, much less her own.

Plus, a guilt-free ass-whooping is more interesting.

Like fuck does he want her feeling sorry for him or pretending she cares. It’s insulting and makes his head hurt.

As for the patronizing part, he’s got his reasons. Not that Malice would denigrate this smart female. If there’s one thing he respects, it’s a working brain. But for some reason, he likes this goddess angry more than he likes her distressed.

Come and go. Come and go. Come and go.

They’ve been perfecting this waltz for months. She enters, they play chess, someone wins, someone loses, and then she leaves.

It’s gotten old. And it’s not necessary anymore. The missing object in question is evidence of that.

His buxom captor addresses the elephant—or rather, the big fucking woolly mammoth—in the room once again. “Where is it?”

“Where’s what?” Malice inquires, guileless.

Wonder nocks a quartz arrow and targets his chest. “I won’t ask again.”

“Yes, you will. You’ll ask three more times. And then I’ll implode into a puff of smoke, my ligaments flying everywhere. At least, that’s what would happen to the villain in one of those grisly fairytales.”

“Malice—”

“Your eyes shift colors when you’re ticked off. Did you know that?”

“No.”

“Well, now you do. You’re welcome.”

“Malice—”

“Matter of fact, I’ve never seen so many greens swirling around in one place. It’s a nifty trick.”

Except for the part where it threatens to elevate his cock like a crane. For fuck’s sake. Malice scoots in his seat, the irons clanking. Unfortunately, he doesn’t get far since he’s got more manacles attached to him than a minotaur.

Or maybe this genital uproar has to do with his name on her tongue. The sound is all kinds of wrong, like a goddamn cocktail that makes a person tipsy.

Interesting that she’s less concerned about the Asterra Flora and more engrossed in the whereabouts of her corsage. That’s what she’s referring to. Malice is a genius, but it doesn’t take a genius to draw this conclusion.

He’d planned on giving it back when they got down to business. An even exchange for the letters. But maybe he’ll hang onto her little fashion accessory for safekeeping, in case she gets out of line and requires blackmail, bribes, or correctional behavior.

Anyway. Her crew can ransack this vault, sniffing through this library to their hearts’ content. They won’t find the essentials. When it comes to the institution’s nooks and crannies, Malice has a lot more years on them. That’s really not the point to him, but it is to Wonder.

This astute goddess has no other way but through her enemy. And she knows it.

Clipping his head toward the crypt, Malice goes through the motions. “By all means, have at it. Go treasure hunting. You’re not going to find anything but the dust buildup none of you have bothered to clean up.”

Wonder squeezes the arrow shaft. “What do you want?”

Since mobility is limited, he raises his biceps the allotted inch, illustrating the manacles. “You know what I want, Wildflower.”

“Don’t call me that, Demon.”

“I want the same thing as you. To make a bargain.”

“To what end?” she draws out.

Oh, the rush of backdoor deals he doesn’t intend to keep. Malice’s grin unravels like a whip. “We’re going to abduct each other.”