Page 19

Malice

Motherfucking fuck. Electric currents volt up his fingers.

The memory of her skirt rucked high in his fist, those split thighs smooth against his wrist while he searched for the letter, and the infuriated flush that seared across her cheeks produces a cramp in his hand.

Covertly, Malice flexes his digits to ward off the side effects.

Moving the fuck on. The amount of ways he plans on punishing her outnumbers the amount of loose screws in his head. And for the record, Malice can say this about himself because the contents of his brain belong to him. He’s allowed.

As his boots pound through the woods, another set of footfalls jets from behind, marching to catch up.

The sound tightens his jaw like a leash, twelve levels of pissed off climb up his fists, and a stockpile of grudges make themselves at home in his head.

He thwacks a goddamn creeper out of the way, the dense branch cracking in half, which is better than punching a crater into the nearest tree trunk.

Demolishing his vault. Taking him prisoner.

Chaining him down. Triggering flashbacks of events that never actually happened, recurring episodes from a time he can’t remember, each one infesting him like scarabs.

Laying siege to his vault, his archery, his letters, his memories, and his fucking sanity.

Monopolizing his attention in the cathedral cemetery, soaking it up like a sponge until she had him scooting closer.

Playing him like a fiddle, roping him in with that cursed gleam in her irises, setting a booby trap he hadn’t seen coming.

Outsmarting him, kicking his ass, stealing the Asterra Flora.

Almost getting herself slaughtered by his cult.

Wrestling in his arms. Smelling so fucking good. Feeling a lot fucking better under the skirt. Having a fluttery pulse that drove him nuts.

Spewing words she one hundred percent meant. I hate you.

If his molars grind any harder, dust will clog his mouth to the point where he’ll need a chimney sweep to clean it out.

He can’t blame the goddess for that parting shot, however much it’s currently gnawing on his cartilage.

He can’t blame Wonder any more than he can hold every stunt against her.

Matter of fact, Malice would have been disappointed if she hadn’t pulled this many fast ones on him. Defiance is a hot look on her.

Regardless, a shitstorm stirs in his blood. Nothing new in his daily life, but still.

Wonder’s silhouette gains his side. Thankfully, she keeps her smartass mouth shut for the time being. Normally, bantering with her gets Malice going quicker than a motor, but right now, it’s all he can do not to ram this goddess against a tree and commit several illegal acts.

Not all of them involve weapons. Or clothes.

Silence extends between them, stretching with as much tension as a bowstring. Any moment, one of them is going to snap. Until then, Malice compensates by replaying his reciprocated “I hate you too,” picturing the words sinking their fangs into her, if only to see whether he affects the goddess.

Raptors caw from their nests, the noises acting as buffers, and starlight sprays the hedges with glaring tints of silver. A few times, the split of a twig or the rustle of brambles puts them on alert.

At one ominous point, Wonder and Malice twist in opposite directions while nocking their bows. Holding like that, they wait.

“It’s coming from the northeast,” she mutters in a low tone.

“Northwest,” he murmurs while aiming.

The goddess scoffs. “Evidently, you need a compass.”

“Evidently, I’m not the only one. But go ahead and give yourself kudos. I don’t need you to admit I’m right.”

“That’s because you’re not.”

The edge of Malice’s lips tilt. For once, he also doesn’t need the last word, which is why he doesn’t respond, the unspoken point echoing, nonetheless. It’s more delightful listening to Wonder’s resentful grunt.

False alarm. After a three dozen pants of breath, they disarm in unison, the motions synchronized to an uncanny degree.

They walk side by side, putting a boxing ring’s worth of distance between them. It’s not enough. Her profile is still visible to his errant gaze, including the dimples, pursed mouth, and wide hips that swivel with each step, the visuals tugging on his cock.

The silent treatment had worked until they lowered their archery. Now, Malice is having sudden withdrawals. He misses the lash of her tongue the way an addict misses their next fix.

Christ’s sake. What the fuck is going on with him? Since when does any deity provoke the God of Malice? He’s been toggling between stupid and stupider from the second they first clashed, and now it’s messing with his long-awaited reentry into The Dark Fates.

Malice should be celebrating. Instead, he can barely concentrate on where the fuck he’s going.

More than once Wonder has given him a coronary, not just by racing through a fleet of arrows as if someone had lit a match to her ass, but then getting into a skirmish with another deity within ten minutes of dropping here.

And sure, Malice should have prompted Wonder to manifest in the forest with him, instead of wherever she arrived.

Also yes, he would have gone looking for the same trouble, if the battle sounds hadn’t reached his ears from a mile away.

He’d manifested just in time. The sight of Wonder throwing down with an elder would have been sexy, but the arrow shearing toward his abductee had caused a mushroom cloud to detonate behind Malice’s eyes.

He’d already hit critical mass in the cemetery when his mates targeted the goddess, his killing threshold having been exceeded, only for his retinas to fire on all cylinders yet again.

He saw so much red, it’s a marvel the world hadn’t gone monochromatic.

To add insult to chaos, Wonder had prevented Malice from disemboweling the elder. Goddammit. Sympathy is a pain in the ass.

But why? Why the immortal fuck is he raging over this goddess’s well-being? And why the fuck is he angrier at himself for breaking her skin not once, but twice? That’s only a fraction of what he’s done to deities that got in his way. A few strategic cuts are child’s play.

And whyyyy the fuck is Malice even angrier for shit that makes no sense? The flashbacks. The hallucinations. The pictures that flicker in his mind like chips of a strobe light. They’ve got nothing to do with her.

Yet. Some kind of unresolved spite pricks his flesh, sharper than needles.

As if he’s wrong. As if he’s been blind.

Wonder knows something about Malice. She knows something and isn’t telling him.

All the more reason not to trust her. All the more reason to probe.

Slitting his eyes, Malice scans the goddess’s profile. Her pupils turn glossy, as if she’s going to weep. Maybe it’s nostalgia for this place. But he’d rather it be about him. If his instinct is correct, making this goddess cry for whatever she’s hiding is the least she deserves.

His tongue gets a second wind. Ignoring the way her features nick his chest, Malice licks his lips and prepares to strike.