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Hunching over her, that sooty timbre whispers in her ear, “Resist and you lose.”

An ambitious whimper curls up her throat. She conceals the reaction with an obstinate grunt. Nonetheless, the sound hardens into an aroused yelp when his ivories seek purchase on her shoulder.

It had been a productive day in the Curses and Antidotes branch. That is, until Malice took one look at her curled up, reading like a dutiful scholar in need of instruction. At which point, his eyes had gleamed.

Or maybe Wonder had been the perpetrator.

He’d been browsing a book with one hand and lazily clawing through his hair with the other, the muscles of his chest knitting.

That’s when he caught her leering. And that’s when he carelessly tossed aside his choice of reading material.

In which case, this had been a collaborative intervention.

Malice grazes his talons down her spine, a tantalizing shudder traipsing in their wake. He traces the line of her ass, eliciting an onslaught of magnetic currents, so that she ruts against the table, seeking more. He nips her throat, causing her to arch, ass bracketing in the air.

Withstand the delectable torment. That’s the challenge.

Yet several hours into it, chemistry and the laws of physics have frayed her nerve endings. Her body is a live wire, conductive to every touch, every lick, every apparatus he uses on her.

Malice dabs a quill into an inkwell and scribes words onto her flesh. One across her tailbone. One descending the back of her thigh. Another along her backside. Another down her spine, the instrument gliding, looping.

He would write something controversial across her pussy if she weren’t soaked. So instead, Malice taps her intimate lips several random times with the pen. Wonder jolts against the bonds, disorderly sensations scurrying across her flesh, and he sucks her wetness from the quill’s tip.

After savoring the flavor, Malice pats the first string of letters. “What does it say?” he instructs like a tutor.

“Wildflower,” she answers, licking her lips in concentration as he progresses to each word. “Goddess. Philosopher. Academic.”

“Brilliant student,” the devil praises. “What else?”

“Asshole.”

She yips as his palm smacks her buttocks, the thwack audible in the study den, neither harsh nor gentle. Wonder bucks, a victorious moan slipping from her mouth.

“What was that?” he inquires in amusement. “Try again. And don’t make your mentor wait.”

He’s goading her, daring her. But she’s not so easily thwarted.

As such, Wonder holds out against a few choice slaps onto her rump, the noise clapping through the room, the contact seductive rather than harmful.

The teasing stings make her flesh warm, a discovery they’ve been investigating to its full potential.

She trusts him. That had been mutually established before this role-play began.

Malice’s jeans brush Wonder’s core as he stands between her gaping thighs. A glide of ink on her skin. A pinch of one nipple between his digits. This divine torment continues until she’s shaking against the table, the chains clattering, her cleft oozing down her leg.

Finally, she takes pity on the demon’s aspirations. She speaks in a hushed tone, lips angling into a grin at what he’s written. “Legend.”

He hadn’t chosen this term merely because of the legends she discovered. Rather, it’s because Malice considers Wonder a legend. An epic narrative unto herself.

Standing behind her, Malice murmurs in satisfaction, “Smart goddess.”

“Exemplary goddess,” she replies, wiggling her ass to illustrate the point.

A husky groan. His jeans rustle. Then the long, smooth shape of his cock spreads her open. Wonder weeps in pleasure as Malice pivots inside her, darkness enhancing the friction.

Bending over Wonder, the devil grabs a handful of her hair.

Gently pulling on the roots, he cranes her into an arch.

Then he rewards her with languid belts of his waist, that leisurely cock jutting her across the table, his grasp tethering her in place.

Wonder cries in splendor, bucking backward into him, coming undone like an apt pupil.

***

When she can’t remember a fact, he reminds her. When he can’t find a book, she procures it for him. When one of them locates a potential detail that might explain why Malice was reincarnated—how it happened and why—they inform each other.

Unmistakably, The Fate Court hadn’t known about Malice’s past life.

Otherwise, they would have banished him earlier.

To their kind, humans are inferior. Even if Malice is no longer mortal, their rulers would have seen his existence an insult, an accident of birth.

Unless The Stars commanded The Court otherwise, the deities would have disposed of Malice without a second thought.

He and Wonder alternate, working together, hunting for the answers each of them seeks.

When they have a theory about fate and free will, about deities and humans, about life and death, they compare notes.

Historical accounts of their culture, analyses of combat, the strengths and weaknesses of immortality and mortality, their union with The Stars, and maps of The Dark Fates.

Most of it, they already know. But they make sure to review everything, in case they’ve overlooked an important piece of information originating from their upbringing. Some of it reveals hidden gems, such as techniques for targeting, the nature of compromise, and the intricacies of negotiation.

But a loophole is missing. A key detail they’ve yet to weed out.

In the mornings, they rummage through the repository. In the evenings, they wander naked through The Archives, racing to see who can get to a designated section first. Like a race, they assign one another the most obscure titles and then tear in opposite directions to locate them.

Shouts of ecstasy, relentless banter, and occasional screaming matches fill their days. Wonder meditates, and Malice breaks objects in fits of frustration. She muses, and he calculates. She chides, and he gets sarcastic. She puts him in his place, and he makes her laugh.

On a dais in The Silver Planetarium, she masturbates for his viewing pleasure, while he mumbles filthy words from the front row. In kind, he strums his cock while she verbally directs the motions.

Mornings bleed into nights. Keeping their hands off each other is about as consistent as keeping their clothes on. That barricade has been demolished, reduced to a pile of rubble.

Yet the ravenous sex also leads to moments of affection.

Malice takes her hand and laces their fingers as they walk down a stairwell, his body routinely a step ahead, the stance protective.

Wonder brushes her palm across his forearm as she passes him in the aisle.

He makes her coffee, and she shares it with him.

Without acknowledging it, these random bursts of intimacy increase in frequency, slipping between the cracks of their mission.

***

His arrow cleaves through the darkness, striking one of the markers they’ve set up throughout the various wings. Careful not to strike the books, they train from one end of the library to the other, their weapons zoning in on the target boards, in addition to each other.

Whoever wins this round gets their pick of the reward.

Wonder is in the lead, her muscles aching, but thankfully not out of practice.

A figment sweeps by her and vanishes behind a bookcase, then she dodges his own gaze moments later.

Rounding their respective corners in unison, they fire.

The archery flies across the stacks and collides, the weapons flaring with light before reappearing in their quivers.

For hours, they stalk, prowl, and shoot. Equally matched, they test one another’s parameters, grow accustomed to their respective tactics, predicting the other’s next move.

They eventually halt twenty feet apart in Moonscape Hall, idling beneath an enchanted ceiling that shifts through lunar phases. Around them, glass-encased bookshelves house texts only accessible during each respective cycle.

Malice flashes his teeth as if he’s out for blood, this reaction chiefly due to Wonder’s lack of attire. Because yes, she’s wearing nothing but a holstered bra and panties, which feels rather human. However, the lace had been too attractive not to conjure.

As for Malice, well. That chest is rarely covered these days, and the elastic garment hugging his ass to the upper thigh leaves little to the imagination.

Spinning an arrow like a baton, he strides in her direction with the grace of a puma and arches an eyebrow.

“It appears you’d like to get fucked by my weapon. ”

Wonder balks. Warmth spills across her face as she meets him halfway, facing off with this demon. “Why would you assume that?”

“Because the deeper you blush, the wetter you are.”

Shit. “That isn’t arousal, that’s exertion.”

“Same thing,” Malice intones. “Violence versus desire.”

Indeed, he’s right. She feels it down to the marrow of her bones, this need for one another instinctual.

They stare, breathe, wait. Then Malice drops his arrow. And she drops her own weapon. Within seconds, her panties are shredded on the ground.

Astride Malice on a reading chair, Wonder straddles his cock and swings her hips until they’re screaming themselves hoarse. Wearing only the quivers hitched to their backs, they slam into one another, her pussy clasping his erection.

At one point, she eases away to glimpse his hooded eyes. They have work to do. They need to calm down. If not, they’ll surely expire.

While lancing between her thighs, Malice’s eyes burn like hot coals. With a moan of resignation, Wonder grabs his jaw and yanks his mouth to hers.