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Only one word stands out in his diatribe, and it’s the last one Wonder wishes to concentrate on. But when he utters that lewd, four-letter term, tossing it out like a vice, she has a yen to catch it. Her knuckles go so far as to curl, the temptation climbing her fingers.

Wonder would ask where he’s going with this recitation. But again, one can never guess in which direction his cranium is pointing. It might be random, or it might be very much intentional.

“So have you read the myth?” he asks.

“We’re not doing this again, dearest,” she overrules.

“That means no. I gotta say, it’s irresponsible of a deity, even if the human version of Greek mythology is inaccurate. I would have thought—”

“I’ve read it, Demon.”

“Which interpretation, Wildflower? Any taboo modernizations? Or are you a traditionalist who sticks to what you know?”

Wildflower. He’s taken to calling her that, the nickname having less to do with her corsage and more to do with the flower-shaped scars on her wrists. Regardless, the moniker irks her more than a pesky fly, which is certainly on purpose.

As for his questions, there’s an obsessive lilt to the inquiries. They coerce Wonder, daring her to indulge him.

It’s not going to work. That’s why she’s here instead of her crewmates.

Love gets riled up too easily. Andrew can’t be down here without feeling a murderous urge to gut Malice for kidnapping his mate.

The same goes for Anger regarding Merry, whereas Merry chatters too much to accomplish quick visits.

Envy doesn’t care to face off with someone as good-looking as himself.

And Sorrow gets depressed by the vault’s ambience.

Notwithstanding during the crew’s reunion on Stargazer Hill, Wonder had staked her claim on Malice, declaring he was her mess to handle.

But she’s also the only candidate equipped to play Malice’s warden, which isn’t saying much.

A spike of intellectual rivalry curls up her throat like a weed, however she refuses to get dragged into another literary contest. It’s not stimulating in the least. Not at all.

Not. At. All.

They stare at one another. Wonder does her utmost to remain taciturn, cementing her features into a mask. For all intents and purposes, he does the same with her, which is better than him throwing another colossal fit when things don’t go his way.

At least he’s blissfully unaware of last night, ignorant of his frenzied attack and her visit. That’s one less thing to fret about.

So, there. He doesn’t know everything. Let him spend eternity trying.

On that score, she’s got her own buttons to push. “Your book,” Wonder demands. “And the other antique titles you possessed down here before they were destroyed. Why did you collect them?”

His leer vanishes. A snarl builds in his mouth, which is probably the only thing left that fits inside it. “I’ll see your question and raise you one.” Then his veneer drops like a stone, wrath torching across his features. “Where the fuck are my letters?”

Wonder tenses. She has been expecting this.

He’s been asking daily, picking random times to interrogate, to throw her off guard, so that she might slip.

In addition to Malice’s weapons, the crew had also commandeered an assortment of aged envelopes from the rubble of his home, each one containing letters older than every human alive on this earth.

“What’s written on them?” she deflects.

“Why?” he hisses. “Haven’t you already peeked?”

Wonder schools herself to breathe calmly. “Never mind the letters. One thing at a time. We were talking about the books. What’s their significance to you?”

Best to offer an unspoken bargain. She’ll tell him eventually, if he cooperates.

Of course, Malice does nothing of the sort. Presumably, he knows it’s a lie. Accustomed to this tug-of-war, the mercurial god postpones the inquisition, a secondary motivation darkening his irises.

He raises the tome, the hardback poised between his claws. “You mean, you didn’t take a guess when you handed this over last night?”

Checkmate. A tremor sprints across her skin. He knows she was down here, tampering with things that don’t belong to her.

The demon might have been awake the whole time. In which case, he allowed her to take liberties, touching him and petting his hair. The notion is as believable as him possessing a conscience. And yet…

What else has Malice figured out? Does he know how much he resembles someone else? Someone Wonder lost?

She falters. “I…”

“You,” he repeats from the pit of his throat.

“Yeah, you. I’ve got so many ideas about you, goddess.

How I can leap out of this chair right now and demonstrate what I think of you groping what isn’t yours.

That you haven’t noticed how close your quiver hangs from me, easy to steal despite the kinky handcuffs, and how I’m thinking of the best place to use the weapon on you.

To graze an arrow over tender areas that’ll either make you bleed or moan. ”

To emphasize, his attention slides like a blade along her lips, across her neck, between her breasts, over her heart, and down to her navel. Each place is a landmark he would enjoy piercing, tearing apart, splitting wide.

Those eyes land on her lap, incinerating the fabric of her skirt. The difference between arousal and violence is also a challenge to decipher from him. Wonder resists shifting the arrow quiver farther across her back, nudging it out of range. For that will only illustrate doubt and vulnerability.

Rather, she must appear in control. If he gets up and tries something hostile, she’ll block his effort.

But that would be too simple for either of them. Because when Malice rages with words, it’s got a keener edge than physical retribution.

His voice takes small bites out of her composure.

“On the other hand, I’d rather play for a while, prolong the inevitable, and then take something precious that matters to you.

Then I can see what you look like tempted, with your bright—” he swats the pomegranates off the tray, “—spellbound—” then the nectar, “—eyes—” then the coffee, “—full of fears instead of dreams.”

Ceramic and glass crash to the ground. Liquid spills across the cement floor, seeping into the porous surface.

Malice gives Wonder a terrible look. One that promises he’ll deliver. Yet she keeps her gaze stapled to that volatile countenance, refusing to flinch as the debris of his meal litters the foundation.

Slowly, she thinks. Move very slowly.

With all the decorum of a goddess in her third millennium, Wonder rises and turns away from him.

Stepping over the mess, she sweeps across the vault without a backward glance.

Though, it’s hardly a consolation. For the weight of his gaze crawls like a spider up her vertebrae, an assurance that she won’t escape his influence merely by putting distance between them.

Like a proper wraith, a ghost of the past, he’ll reach her no matter how far she gets.