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Anger

Why the fuck is he relieved? The goal is to break the goddess, not keep her in one piece.

Get it the fuck together.

Because there’s no way to transport the motorcycle’s remains, they beseech The Stars for assistance. Once the metal debris vanishes—its destination a vacant chamber on the lower level of Merry’s home—they venture on foot from the arena.

Because Anger has experience with unrequited feelings, he wants to gut himself like a fish for causing Merry pain. Admitting he desires someone else was supposed to break her heart. It should have ended this charade swiftly, gotten Anger what he’d been aiming for.

Yet instead of pacing himself, moving too soon has come at a cost. The hurt that had smeared across Merry’s face in the cable car. How she’d fought to keep those features from buckling. The way her pink irises lost their radiance, his rejection extinguishing them like torches.

The Stars fade. Dawn splashes across the horizon, flooding the sky in hues of gold.

Anger doesn’t want the sunrise. He wants this goddess glowing in the dark like neon.

He wants her light back.

Although Malice told him of her origins, Anger had wanted Merry to offer this information voluntarily. Then he’d sought additional details. While floating above the arena, she finally explained her name and why The Court denied her. And still, he’d yearned for more.

Why had she chosen a blue motorcycle? What choices does she value most? Who would she prefer to be, if not a love goddess? Which members of The Fate Court must he slaughter first to avenge her past?

Disappointment gnaws on Anger when Merry goes silent, depriving him of her ceaseless chatter, words no longer reeling off the conveyor belt of her tongue. She wears every sentiment on her sleeve, from the wistful sighs to the ardent proclamations he doesn’t have a fucking clue what to do with. Yet despite the earlier assurance that she’s fine, she retreats into private thoughts. She might not be broken, but she’s withdrawing into herself, perhaps out of self-preservation.

Historically, uncomfortable silences have been surefire ways to piss him off. But this quiet is different, producing a restlessness inside Anger. Rather than smash the nearest object, he’s on the brink of… what? Saying something reassuring? Trying to make her laugh? For fuck’s sake, he’s not a comfort deity!

The God of Anger does not do coddling. He does not give pats on the back, lift spirits, or offer consolatory gestures. He does not whisper, console, mollify, joke, tickle, or whatever the fuck else is required of moments like this.

Yet. He abhors this level of detachment, especially from her. Seeking a glimpse of those vivid eyes and the endearing gap between her incisors—which peek out whenever she smiles—Anger glances askance.

It’s a grave mistake in an endless stream of grave mistakes. The second his eyes land on Merry’s closed mouth, the visual accelerates his pulse.

Shit. Anger swerves his gaze away. Such traitorous responses are invasive, impractical, and out of scale with his agenda. It’s why The Fate Court’s arrival had caught him off guard to begin with. He’d been sidetracked by the telescopes, by Merry’s lens pointed at him, by those irises glimmering his way.

Actually, by more than that. The picture of her flushed skin and that rosy mouth parting when he toyed with her hair. The way she trembled as he curled that lock behind her ear.

Like an idiot, Anger had lost sense of time and space, failing to perceive the rulers until they had charged. However, the moment they homed in on Merry, he’d nocked an arrow without realizing it, fury spurring his actions.

Merry’s right. Anger could have used his wings to their advantage. Yet where would that have left his crew? The Court would have falsely assumed Wonder, Envy, and Sorrow have been keeping this detail under wraps. As it is, they’re scorned enough without adding more consequences to the pot.

Nonetheless, Anger had meant what he’d said. The wings would have come out, had he and Merry plunged. Matter of fact, the instinct had brimmed across his shoulder blades once they were airborne, the iron wings straining beneath his flesh, desperate to break open and spare Merry the drop. Only when her hand clamped onto Anger had the impulse ceased, and he followed her light as if that alone would keep them from falling.

In any event, if The Court has grievances, they could have sent an ultimatum from afar. No less vicious, but certainly less candid. Rather, they made a concerted effort journeying to the mortal realm, which they never do outside of a crisis.

To the best of Anger’s knowledge, there can only be one motive, which festers in his head. He cracks his knuckles. Better to keep his hands occupied, lest he should take his frustration out on the city’s infrastructure.

They exit The Moonlit Carnival. Anger turns, glancing over his shoulder to take a final look at the amusement park. The pyrotechnics have gone stagnant, and the music has ceased. Still, it takes him a while to twist away.

They travel from the arena into her territory. The farther they go, the more animated Merry gets. If she’s perking up, they’re getting close to her residence, which must be a consolation after losing the motorcycle.

The motorcycle. Yet another loss for her.

Anger imagines how it would feel to surrender his archery or forsake the iron wings. Perhaps that’s the true impetus for Merry’s extended silence.

Reaching her neighborhood, the goddess escorts him to a random building with cornerstones and mullioned windows. As she cranes her head toward the architecture, a poignant grin spreads across her profile.

There’s the light.

This shouldn’t alleviate him. Yet despite every rationality, it does.

Her vibrant skirt splays out like a crinoline under the denim vest. It’s a departure from Love, who used to flaunt the skimpiest dress in history, the panther black shade matching her hair and the wings she’d kept hidden. Whereas Merry is a spectrum flinging color into the world, her presence standing out in the murkiness of nights, defying the shadows.

“Which do you prefer?” Merry asks while admiring the building. “A sensational path? Or a secretive one?”

Anger’s tongue has a mind of its own, because it’s impossible to pretend around her. “Do I look like a fanciful human to you?” he grouses. “I don’t care how we get to your residence. Just pick one.”

“If you insist, but the question was rhetorical.”

Stars almighty. This female.

Inside the undisclosed building, Anger and Merry hike the stairs to the top, a panorama of domes, turrets, and ornate summits greeting them. Beneath a skyline drizzled in the same color as Merry’s hair, they traverse the rooftops. Merry leaps, gaining momentum and soaring. Beside her, Anger bounds from ledge to ledge, the iron wings flailing beneath his flesh, itching to spring free.

At one point, Merry halts next to him, a smug expression alighting her face. And he’s… what? What the fuck is he doing?

“Is that a smile?” she baits.

“Mind your business,” he mutters.

But for fuck’s sake. Instead of demeaning himself, he should be doing damage control. If Anger must break Merry’s heart, he needs to refuel it with hope—the possibility that his affections might shift.

Yet who the devil is he fooling? He’s not a courtly god. While Envy possesses unparalleled skills in sweeping lovers off their feet, at best Anger is shitty at this task. As it is, he’s been floundering all evening.

Laughter bubbles from Merry’s mouth, the sound producing an odd clench in his chest. Mercilessly, the effects don’t end there. With her lips spreading like a temptation, pandemonium floods Anger’s bloodstream.

Stars forbid. When has anyone evoked such an expedited reception from him?

Blessedly, Merry fails to notice. While he struggles to tamp down this infernal reaction, she vaults across one more rift.

Once certain his faculties are under control, Anger follows suit and jumps to the platform. It’s Merry’s observatory, the rooftop fringed in hedges.

Abruptly, she steals Anger’s weapons—will she stop fucking doing that?!—and stashes them in a tall basket. Taking his hand, she drags him down a lane of bushes and strands of light. They migrate along the gravel paths, nooks emerging here and there, each crevice illuminated by candle votives and twinkling garlands.

The passage leads to the open deck outfitted with lounge chairs. Nearby, a hammock extends across one of the shrouded alcoves. Irrespective of the dawning skyline, flames dance from the candlewicks.

Merry drifts ahead, her swishing dress offering glimpses of those smooth calves, the sight drawing Anger’s gaze like a goddamn magnet. She disappears and returns with two steaming mugs, wafting with the scent of herbal tea. When she offers the first to Anger, unworthiness flits through him. The ceramic vessel fills his palms, replacing the emptiness there.

They recline on the lounge chairs, where he grips the tea hard. Possessively hard, the vessel about to split while he glimpses that skirt riding high up her limbs, the fabric trembling, the sight producing an agitated tick in his jaw.

Merry pulls off her ankle boots, reclines across the chair, wraps herself in a throw blanket, and stares at the heavens. “At this hour, it looks like sherbet up there. I could scoop the sky with a spoon.”

As she admires the firmament, Anger drags his attention from her covered limbs to a loose tendril of pink hair grazing her cheek. Her clothes are gaudier than a wedding cake, and there are split ends in her locks, which are thin and mussed. There’s also that cleft in her teeth.

She’s far from flawless.

So why the Fates is he gawking? And why is his cock in danger of thickening?

Disconcerted, Anger shifts. He matches her position, crossing his arms behind his head and warning the anatomy between his hips to calm the hell down. “And just what would you do with a scoop of the sky?”

“Eat it,” she replies. “Or no, I’d feed it to someone who needs it.”

In spite of himself, Anger chuckles. “That is too generous for a deity.”

Her face slumps toward his. “We’re not those kinds of deities anymore, Anger.”

Meaning, exiles are not as selfish. The ethical ones, at least.

Condemnation. When she says things like that, it’s difficult to hold Merry’s gaze, though he cannot say why. It’s even more detrimental to hear his name caught between her lips. Inexcusably, Anger contemplates snatching it back, preferably with his tongue, if only to hear what other noises she’s capable of making.

“What are we?” he asks, stunned by the huskiness in his tone.

Merry nibbles on that full lower lip. “We’re kindred, and we’re tragic, and we’re still here. And because of that, we’re stronger.”

He closes his eyes, struggling to arrange his thoughts. Hasn’t he always been strong? Or has he only ever been strong because of his magic? He cannot recall having ever contemplated that possibility.

“Why did they come after us?” Merry asks.

“You don’t have an idea?” Anger inquires, just in case.

She tucks into her mug. “No. You?”

The lie repels him. “There was a time when I could have predicted their actions, but that era has passed. I do not know them anymore. Now I wonder if they ever knew me.”

Actually, that last part is true. Likewise, he has a craving to share more, the inclination to confide in Merry slipping precariously across the flat of his tongue.

She sets her cup on the ground and snuggles under the blanket, a socked foot peeking out from the edge. “Then we’ll do reconnaissance.”

“And we’ll find out,” Anger agrees.

Yet unease churns inside him. Because how can he do that without revealing his deception?