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“How many times do I need to warn you about issuing challenges like that?” the demon purrs, then relents when Wonder doesn’t move to release him.

“Large quantities of Asterra Flora are heavy, and I tend to travel light for concealment reasons, so it’s smarter not to use up what we’ll need on our honeymoon.

Also—” a grin unspools across his face, “—it’s sexier this way. ”

“You mean, it’s more gratifying forcing me to free you.”

“There’s that, except brevity is boring. I like specifics. It’s more thrilling to make you come near me, watch you sink to your pretty knees, and feel you stick your key into my latch.”

For Fate’s sake. Never mind how this request is hardly a surprise from him. But must everything from this asshole’s mouth sound like a perversion?

Wonder grinds her molars. She can refuse, but she will not. For the battle ahead, she can’t.

Delaying further will cause a Malice conniption, so she straps her bow across her back. Bolts secure the network of starlit manacles. She goes through the motions while questioning this logic, rummaging for alternate options she might have bypassed prematurely.

Sigh. There aren’t any.

However, she will not prostrate herself like a supplicant.

Instead, Wonder squats, keeping her knees aloft and her eyes on the demon.

His pupils spark like fuse boxes, the magnitude of which shoots darts of electricity up Wonder’s thighs, the stimulation powered by every hate-fueled emotion in existence.

Not looking away, she thrusts the tip of one arrow into the first receptacle binding his ankles. With a grudging twist, the mechanism shudders, succumbing to the pressure and releasing his limbs.

What is she doing? What is she doing? What is she doing?

She’s liberating him and condemning herself. She’s making a deal with the devil.

That’s what she is doing.

Another necessary evil is Malice’s proximity, his shadow hovering, his dark shape extending across the fabric of her skirt. The flow of oxygen condenses, her lungs contracting as she progresses to his waist, the chains strapping like belts across a tight set of hips encased in jeans.

The coarse textile chafes her fingers when they accidentally brush the waistband. At the contact, his abdomen rises and falls in quicker succession, the jacket straining, the snug fit accentuating a sculpted rack of muscles beneath.

Wonder moves faster, desperate to get this part over with. As for the jolt in Malice’s breathing, it’s a mere trick of light from the fire. Either that, or the unsteady respirations are due to his impatience, the exhilaration of escaping these confines.

With every rattled break of the locks, her attention stays pinned to Malice’s, their gazes clinging like static. Stars forgive her. The demon is close to winning this staring contest, his countenance far too hypnotic for Wonder’s liking.

But no. That cannot happen.

Reinforcing herself, Wonder slits her eyes. She moves to his biceps, then to the wrists. Clothing had provided a boundary until now, but it’s no use. To accomplish this final part, she must touch him.

Wonder’s knuckles skim his flesh, her wrist bumping into his own. Malice scarcely flinches, but she pretends not to notice one of his claws extending toward her scars, as if to sketch them. Yet the fingertip pauses just shy of her marred skin, the appendage curling in on itself.

Wise move. If he had made contact without permission, she would have twisted that finger on reflex and cracked the bones in half. Or rather, that’s ideally what she would have done.

But what sensations would his touch have yielded? Disgust, offense, or something more primal? And how long would the effects have lasted?

Making haste, she wrenches open the shackles binding his hands. The clamp yields, the crack of iron resounding. Wonder might as well have unleashed a wild tiger. She lunges back, heedful to be the first one on her feet.

The monster takes his sweet, unprecedented time.

While peering at her, Malice massages his wrists, then makes a show of rising slowly.

Although Wonder is neither petite like Love or Sorrow, nor tall like Merry, the demon’s considerable height exceeds her own.

He’s on level with Andrew, Anger, and Envy there.

Not to mention, Malice’s broad muscles expand beyond Wonder’s ample body like a cliffside.

She stands her ground, choking the arrow in her fist. If she’s not careful, the shaft is going to snap.

Her gaze drops to where Malice rubs his raw flesh, the circumference of his wrists larger than she’d noticed. When he drags a thumb along his pulse point, a similar tempo beats in her throat.

“Thank you,” he mocks, the undercurrent of contempt hard to miss.

“You’re not welcome,” she mocks back, jamming the arrow into her quiver.

Nonetheless, her response washes the acid from his voice. “Being welcome? Where’s the fun in that?”

Naturally.

He moves with stealth, able to pass through the vault’s stardusted bars while accompanied by Wonder.

They travel side by side up the stairs, keeping one another in sight.

At the landing, Malice throws back his head and inhales what she imagines is the scent of paper and vintage books.

It’s a minor indulgence, a moment of relish before he keeps going.

For once, she doesn’t have to marvel at the impulse, because she understands this type of devoted worship.

That said, one would not expect this proclivity from a male who looks and conducts himself like Malice. Routinely, the demon looks as if he just stepped off the stage of a sold-out rock concert or… from a place that compresses her ribs.

Caged figures. Bed straps. Humans in white coats stabbing them with syringes.

Halting behind Malice, she closes her eyes, pushing away the horrid vignette. Then she keeps going.

Shades of nightfall spear through the windows, glazing the bookshelves in silver.

Malice strides down the runner-lined corridors as though he owns this place, with the confidence of a phantom dressed in heavy-metal black.

Under the jeans, his hips move gracefully for one who has lived such a gritty life.

This fact becomes a controversial reality when the unhampered view draws her eyes to the toned outline of his ass.

Treacherous embers streak through the cramped spaces inside her, including areas too private and disgraceful to acknowledge.

Yet her gaze remains attached to that ass like a staple, watching the muscles flex for an unsavory length of time.

That is, until Malice stops. And swings his head over his shoulder.

Shit. Wonder cuts her eyes to his face a second before he catches her in the act.

Arching an eyebrow, he says nothing as she marches his way, falling into step with him.

While they continue through the aisles, Malice shows no indication that she’d been objectifying him.

If he’d noticed, the demon would make a raunchy comment and never let her live the incident down.

Wonder would shame herself for this misstep, but his tenor vacuums her thoughts into a black hole. A husky, rasping melody slides from under his breath, absently delivered and barely audible. Yet it’s enough to shatter Wonder, scattering her thoughts like shrapnel.

It’s only when Malice stalls that Wonder realizes she’s immobile, her feet nailed to the wool rug. He tosses her a sidelong glance. Whatever reaction clutters her visage, it tenses his jaw, as if she’s just issued an ultimatum.

“You can sing,” she says.

“Not on purpose,” he discloses. “You have a problem with that?”

Yes, she does. It’s too pertinent, too miraculous, too familiar.

With exaggerated hospitality, he swings his arm, inviting her to join him.

Blessedly, Wonder recovers from the stupor, though it takes a while for her stomach to settle while navigating the maze of stacks.

Many people can sing; it’s nothing, purely another fluke.

Except the longer denial curdles in her chest, the harder it will be to digest later.

She takes the lead, ushering Malice to the 100s.

Because there’s no reason to hide at this point, she hunkers to the secret compartment behind a line of books and retrieves his archery first. As much as she doesn’t want to surrender the weapons, he’ll need a method of defense, and depriving a god of his bow in The Dark Fates is tantamount to a death sentence.

After tossing the bow and loaded quiver to Malice, she whirls from his line of sight and seizes the moment.

While he’s harnessing the archery, she slips one of his envelopes into a camouflaged pocket amid the inner lining of her skirt.

If she cannot keep all of them, reducing his stash by one must do, in case she needs this bargaining chip later.

Fishing out the remaining letters, Wonder braces herself. Hopefully, he won’t take inventory since that will delay them.

She turns too fast, one of the envelopes fluttering to the ground. On impulse, Wonder moves to pick it up, gasping when his grip fastens around her arm, tightening like a noose.

At some point, Malice had lowered himself next to her. They’re hunched over, their knees pressing against one another. With his free hand, he rescues the envelope, his voice a snare liable to choke her. “Come near these again, and I’ll slit you open with my fingernails.”

Wonder glares. “Do I look like a damsel who cowers easily?”

“Actually, you look like a goddess who’s too sharp to deal out dispensable questions. Besides, if you cowered easily, you would have lost my attention in two seconds flat when we met. I’d rather have a goddess who can take it rough.”

“You do not have me,” she hisses. “Furthermore, you can’t draw more blood from me than others already have.”

The reference to her scars piques his interest. “Care to elaborate?”

No, she does not. Wonder yanks her arm backward and gains her feet.

Feasting on her reaction like it’s his last meal, Malice rises while slipping the letters into the inside of his jacket, the fitted tank beneath rippling as if his muscles are about to tear through.

“Atta girl. Sidestep the question and see how far you can push me. That way, I can push back harder.”

“Tell me where the letters are from.”

“Conjured them in The Dark Fates when I was a strapping young god-in-training and suffering an identity crisis. Did you hear what I said?”

“Did you know your inquiries are immaterial to me?”

It’s a lie. Dismissing anything Malice says is unwise in numerous respects, if only to stay one chess move ahead. Yet for some competitive reason, Wonder cannot stand to let him have the last word.

Nonetheless, his inquisition is a warning made of silk the color of oxblood. Soft, dark, fatal. She can’t say whether this vitriol is directed at her or elsewhere.

The letters’ origins make sense, though it doesn’t account for the antique telescope or old books that were demolished during the battle with Anger.

Those, Malice must have fabricated when he arrived in the mortal realm.

And while Wonder has seen similar objects before, in another life long ago, his possessions aren’t exact replicas.

Eventide spills through a neighboring window as Wonder grips the strap of her quiver. “I’d like my corsage back now.”

That deceptive mouth crooks. “Not going to pat me down? I was looking forward to that privilege.”

“The only time I will ever touch you is to kill you.”

Malice tips his head in thought. “Too many kinky comebacks to pick from.”

She’s going to scream at him. “Give. Me. The. Corsage.”

“How badly do you want it?”

“How painfully would you like to find out?”

“How much pain do you think we can both handle?”

“What cursed game are you playing?”

“Who mutilated your hands?”

The tug-of-war ends. It’s not the first time he’s interrogated her about this.

However, the non-sequitur isn’t going to throw Wonder off. “We made a deal.”

Moonlight slashes across the angular planes of Malice’s face. Like a paring knife, his shrewd gaze peels back every layer she has, searching for a ruse. As this happens, the weight of one errant letter weighs down the lining of her skirt.

But instead of calling her bluff, Malice draws his insufferable tongue across his teeth. “Your precious commodity isn’t here. Neither is the Asterra Flora. For that, we’ll have to make a pit stop.”

Her fingers clench the bow. Logically, she had believed he carried the phial of dark magic in some hidden flap among his attire, just as she had stored his letter under her skirt.

As for her prized accessory, Wonder had expected Malice to hoard it someplace in the library when he escaped the first time.

To the contrary, this demon must have manifested to another location outside the building. Whatever his reasons, that manic gleam in his eye makes it plain. This detour will not benefit her.

Hades and Persephone. They never abducted one another. Only one person did the capturing.

Wonder is nocking her bow and aiming at Malice’s heart in seconds. “We never agreed to a pit stop.”

He leans one powerful shoulder against the books. “And I never said I’d play nice.”

Before she can loose the weapon, he vanishes and reappears behind her.

One mighty palm clamps over her mouth, stuffing a gag between Wonder’s lips to block her furious shout.

The scent of a sour fruit permeates her nostrils like an overripe pomegranate.

Then her eyelids fall shut, and she plunges into darkness.