Page 35

Wonder

Dreams beckon, submerging her in a watercolor seascape where she floats among a prism of colors.

Then dawn awakens Wonder, its arrival soft and silent.

It has been so long since she’s had an easy sleep.

She feels refreshed, with her figure swaddled in linens and the lazy blue haze of morning greeting her.

A heavy weight burrows beside Wonder, the muscled expanse rising and falling under the blanket. Rhythmic, masculine hums fill the air. His face is the first thing she sees, golden lashes twitching, his deep-set lids indicating blessed slumber.

Like any predator, Malice looks harmless when unconscious. With his features slack, she might as well be lying beside that human man, her fantasies burgeoning into reality.

His breath stirs Wonder’s hair. At her age, it’s hard to believe there are any new emotions left to feel, much less new experiences to have. But this moment proves her wrong. She has neither seen nor experienced anything remotely comparable to this.

And now she knows what gratitude feels like.

Yet it dwindles quickly, overshadowed by memories of last night. His nightmares carry the tattered remains of history, that former life ripping him to pieces. Is he aware those visions were once the truth? Does he know they really happened? Wonder still hasn’t gleaned exactly how much he recalls.

Regardless, she must tell him about the legend. If recovering his heart will revive the memories and the part of himself that died, then he might find peace. With any luck, he’ll never scream again.

Then again, there’s no guarantee. She can only hope that remembering won’t lead to additional nightmares.

And rivals or not, enemies or not, this will end only one of two ways.

Either Malice won’t resurrect that long-forgotten part of himself and continue to suffer this trauma, or he will get his memory back, a foundation on which to begin healing.

Regardless, he will also remember Wonder’s role in his existence; ultimately, he will rue the day she was born. It will always cycle back to hate.

Not that she plans to have the legend do all the work for her. The truth about Wonder’s involvement must come from her mouth. That much, she must confess.

But if Wonder succeeds in releasing her own heart, how he feels about her won’t matter, because she won’t care.

She’ll have emancipated herself from this emotional anarchy, her mission in life narrowing to that of an immortal goddess who loves books, not a pining one obsessed with a dead man, nor a grieving female who brings other couples together as compensation for her own loneliness.

She’ll be strong once more, rejuvenated for her crew’s battle with The Fate Court.

Except there’s one fatal drawback. Their hands are still clasped between them, his calloused fingers threading with her own, the touch causing a lump to bud like a flower in her throat.

As Wonder attempts to wriggle free, Malice’s fingers tighten. Her gaze springs to his eyes, the chasms open and piercing like the sharpest pair of stars in the universe.

That’s him. A razor-sharp star.

If she were so fortunate, or so condemned, Wonder would have this sight all to herself every morning.

He would rake over her with those eyes, stripping Wonder to the bone, so there was no place left to hide.

All the while, Malice would skim his fingernails over each vulnerable spot, making her gasp and slicken and plead.

Then he would be on her, rolling Wonder onto all fours, spearing her legs apart, and flaring her soaked cunt wide, spreading the lips open with the domed head of his cock.

He would fuck her obsessively, making sure Wonder began her day in the same fashion, coming with a scream.

Wonder clenches her limbs together, arousal seeping from the cleft of her pussy. She would chastise herself for such inappropriateness, however she and Malice have long since surpassed the point of discretion or acceptable behavior. This thing between them is messy and scarcely innocent.

And yet. He’s staring at Wonder through rapt eyes, as if she’s an exception to every violent impulse he possesses. As if she’s dear to him.

Wonder swallows the lump. She’s being foolish. That romanticized look is the product of her overachieving flights of fancy.

Malice hums, the noise a deep rattle in his chest, the lazy timbre stroking the insides of her thighs. “Slumber is a fickle pastime,” he husks. “It renders you helpless yet sets you free.”

“I want my fingers back,” she utters.

“I’m sure you do. It’s nice to have fingers. They’re practical for groping things that don’t belong to you. Like secrets.”

“You’re referring to more than just secrets.”

“You’re right. I’m referring to fucking.”

That does it. Wonder’s composure fits back into place like a mechanism, and she yanks her digits from his grip. “I see the vulgar side of your cerebrum is intact.”

“I see the contents of your mind have reached maximum capacity and need unloading. At least, when it comes to the same topic. Otherwise, it’ll segue to sexual frustration.

And where will that leave you while in seclusion with a monster?

Maybe I’ll have to shove my hand deeper into your cunt the next time. Make you loosen up nice and soft.”

“Stop it. You do this whenever you’re uncomfortable and get desperate. You toss out licentious comments, making others squirm so you don’t have to.”

She’s hit a nerve. His eyes taper, the shift in demeanor immediate, like thunder cracking through a cloud. “Then why the fuck are you here?”

The question has multiple layers. Why did she come to his aid in the first place? Why did she stay the night? Why doesn’t she leave?

More than that, a tinge of confusion lingers beneath the surface. The hostile tone conceals the most pertinent mystery: Why did she have to see him that way?

Unaccustomed to compassion, the demon’s features toggle between defensive and scathing. His gaze shouts the obvious protests. She shouldn’t have barged into his room, and he wants her out of here so he can fester and smash something in private, without Wonder as a witness.

Nonetheless, he’s right. Her mind is filled to the brim, crammed with too much of him and not enough of her. And that, she will no longer stand for.

Wonder whips aside the blanket. “I’ll go then.”

But she makes it all of several inches before one word stays the motions. “Don’t.”

She stalls, glimpsing his profile turned away from her. Malice’s brows furrow in consternation, the request having come out unbidden. He sounds perplexed, imploring her against his will, unable to help himself despite how this also vexes him. “Don’t go.”

Wonder hedges before reclining once more beside the demon.

For a while, they lie there, quietly watching one another, eyes clutching in a way that should be unnerving.

Malice has exasperated, infuriated, and inundated Wonder with ecstasy.

But he has never once intimated her, irrespective of how often the demon has tried.

While meeting his stare, Wonder braces herself at last. “I found something.”

Then she tells him about the legend. Except she omits three things.

One, the portion about releasing her own heart.

Two, what this legend might mean to him.

Three, how she’d used the letter from his collection to uncover the legend’s text.

Instead, she uses cryptic terminology, mentioning only a random sheet of paper.

When she finishes, Malice’s silence permeates the room. Whatever his intentions in The Archives, whether or not it’s linked to his memories, Wonder feigns ignorance about any possible connection.

Yet if she tarries for much longer, that impression will fade.

Then he’ll sift through her features and uproot the missing pieces.

Already Malice is picking through her words, scavenging for ulterior motives or errors of logic.

That’s what he does, overthinks and overcomplicates. Though, it’s not without due cause.

Wonder swings her legs over the side. As she stands, Malice’s pupils latch onto the strap of her bodice, which has slid down her shoulder, exposing the summit of a breast. A scant two inches more, and the bud of a nipple will make a grand entrance.

She yanks the strap back in place. But it only encourages his gaze to detour, making an excursion down her unkempt locks, then continuing across the satin folds of her sleepwear before making a return trip.

The route he takes wracks her with shivers, tightening her breasts.

Any more of this, and her nipples will stud beneath the textile.

Wonder cannot remember a time when Malice has ever been this quiet.

No snarls or sarcasm. The demon has gone to homicidal, manipulative, and desperate lengths to be here for some unknown end.

However, the information Wonder has provided hardly seems to faze him.

Not as much as the folds of her gown do, his eyes searing through the material.

“I’m telling you this because of the nightmares,” she says, putting on a show of nonchalance.

“Bad dreams are generally about fears, guilt, or abuse. Whatever’s plaguing you, it’s feeding on your soul, and don’t get me started on what it’s doing to your murderous streak.

Although we came to an understanding last night, I cannot embark on this mission if your capriciousness keeps getting in the way.

If you recover your heart, perhaps success shall reward you with…

solitude. A way to banish the nightmares.

“Hence, this isn’t a friendly gesture. It’s a pragmatic one, to illustrate my gratitude for you consoling me yesterday, so don’t misinterpret.

There, I’ve done my duty and told you,” she states.

“It’s your choice whether to believe it or not, but I don’t have time to sit around and wait. I have priorities.”