Page 5

Malice

Ten Minutes Earlier

He watches her ass move as she leaves, swinging that curvy rump with more panache than a stripper in a G-string. Malice would say it’s going to get him in trouble. But he’s already there, has been since she first pointed a deadly weapon at his chest.

Wonder. A genuine wildflower. Except this one’s got keener edges than she lets on to her crew, hidden defenses to repel predators like him.

What can he say? He’s always liked his playthings violent. And based on the voluptuous shape of her body, there are countless spots to fuck with. Like a good little goddess, the pent-up female is providing enough ammo to keep his tongue in business for a solid century.

Malice’s lips relax into a sneer. Fantastic. She’s living up to the hype he’s invented for himself.

Feeling self-congratulatory, he replays his parting words to her, the ones that launched the goddess out of this vault like a torpedo about to demolish something.

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, spellbound eyes full of fears instead of dreams.

That said, fantasies of her routinely pissed off haven’t entered his brain just for kicks.

During his off-days when he hasn’t been scrutinizing the stardusted bars, the construction of his restraints, and the idiosyncrasies of his jailers, Malice has been obsessing over Wonder’s weaknesses.

Her chronic habits, lack of vagaries, and quickest triggers.

Each discovery has injected him with a shot of adrenaline.

At least, half the time. The other half, she’s hard to figure out.

Weeding through a conspiracy theory board would be less of a challenge.

This female keeps her fragile cards close.

Malice hates being kept in the dark, but it’s even more intense with her, the mysteries as irritating as they are addictive.

And come on. He wouldn’t want this goddess to make it that easy for him. Surrendering without terms isn’t a good look on her anyway. It’s more satisfying when she puts up a cat fight.

Lounging in the rocking chair like an evil motherfucker—like himself—Malice slices his tongue across his canines. Fates if his latest toy doesn’t stir up an appetite every time she strides in here like a loaded cannon. If Titans existed, they’d have nothing on the Goddess of Wonder.

Ceramic and glass shards lay scattered around his boots, another set of casualties in this private war they’ve waged against each other.

Tsk, tsk, taking off without cleaning up after herself?

That’s grounds for payback. This might be Malice’s prison, but it’s also his home, away from home, away from home.

The sloppy goddess has retaliation coming for littering the vault, just like she had his parting speech coming.

Oh, he’d known she was down here last night. Kneeling at his feet. Combing through his hair. Groping his book. Setting it in his lap. At one point, he’d woken up with the dregs of a nightmare chomping on his mind, his throat raw from howling.

Dripping needles. White coats. Strap buckles.

A knife impaling his stomach. Blood splattering a tile floor.

The same flashes. But this time, someone’s fingers infiltrated the nightmare.

The next thing Malice knew, those fingers were gliding through his mussed waves, and his balls were tightening to the point of pain.

Never mind how the soft contact had screwed with his mind, the gesture akin to what mortals call tenderness.

Christ. It wasn’t the first time she wreaked havoc on his psyche, as well as his cock. But it was the first time she’d chopped through his visions with the force of an axe, as if granted powers he doesn’t possess.

Whatever. She’s hot, hatred is an aphrodisiac with a short shelf-life, and he can manage his impulsive dick.

The bigger problem is keeping his brain from getting scrambled like an egg whenever she’s around.

He’s got too many bones to pick, too much vengeance to satisfy over the letters, and too much free time to kill.

All of which can’t be wasted on delusions.

Binging on the sight of her smartass mouth, heavy tits, and green eyes will get him nowhere.

Not to mention the bullshit that happens to his bloodstream whenever they banter. Sure, it trains him, gives him fodder for harassing the goddess. But that doesn’t excuse Malice for acting like an amateur escape artist.

There’s having fun. And there’s too much of a good thing.

Better to plot what he’ll do to that bitch when the tables have turned. Chains. Blindfolds. Blades. Mind fuckery. The possibilities are as endless and indulgent as a buffet.

Getting his mind back in gear, Malice waits another five minutes.

When the goddess doesn’t return, and when members of her crew don’t arrive to pick up her slack, one side of his mouth quirks like an apostrophe.

His gaze slides to the pomegranate that had rolled grenade-like across the floor earlier.

In Wonder’s presence, he’d made sure to look callous, flippant while punting the fruits off the tray.

The pome bears his teeth marks, from when he bit into the rind and watched the goddess squirm. At the time, her obvious discomfort had prompted the female to shift. The motion elicited visions of her pussy clenching, which had sent his libido into critical mass, briefly throwing Malice off course.

Luckily, she didn’t notice that mistake. Even better, she’d failed to register his sticky fingers the night before.

Take something from me, and I’ll take something back.

Eventually, she’ll figure it out. Preferably when it’s too late.

And what a shame—not really–how many times captors dismiss unlikely threats.

They’re so focused on depriving the enemy of sharp weapons and damning texts that they overlook the alternatives.

Ambiguities and delicacies. Feigned sleep and sleights of hand.

Too bad for the heroes, seeing as those substitutes are the basis for manipulation, infusions, and heists.

Case in point. Exhibit A.

Malice has long legs and excellent aim. Extending one limb, he bumps the half-eaten pomegranate, pitching it toward him like a bowling ball.

Clamping the orb between his boots, he squeezes until the husk cracks open.

Glossy burgundy seeds rest inside, each one possessing more dark magic than those nuclear missiles humans are so fond of manufacturing.

Intelligent Wonder should have drawn this conclusion. Or the goddess should have just glimpsed her wrist. If she hadn’t been distracted by every verbal lash of Malice’s tongue, the female might have.

No more pacing himself. He’s amassed enough susceptible details about the goddess to keep her the fuck in check. Wildflowers may be wild, but they’re also effortless to pull from their roots, to make them wilt and dry.

Time to up the ante. Time to play dirty.

Manacles suffocate his wrists and ankles. But not his chest, thighs, and fingers.

Anticipation buzzes up his veins, the rush as heady as getting shitfaced or leaping off the edge of a skyscraper. Bucking off the rocking chair, Malice grunts as his knees hit the ground with enough force to fracture his patellas. Thank hell for immortality.

Bending over, he traps the pomegranate in his palms. Stabbing a taloned fingernail into the membrane does the trick, seeds popping from the shell. It takes some maneuvering, iron clanking as he pinches a kernel between his thumb and forefinger.

Then the edge of his mouth curves. That’ll do.