Page 14

14

Anger

Fucking hammock! Anger thrashes, this absurd excuse for a bed swinging like a pendulum and threatening to capsize him. Sardined among the blankets, he attempts to find a comfortable position without crashing to the ground. A slew of profanities blows from his mouth, from “Shit” to “Fucking shit!”

At this rate, he’s going to commit genocide on every forsaken thread count. Impudently, he’d opted for this alcove instead of accommodations in the observatory, or at least one of the outdoor lounge chairs. Merry had been elated when Anger agreed to bunk here, her face rosy slumber and a day’s worth of downtime. While she had waxed poetic about the charm of sleeping in the open air “beneath infinity,” Anger had simply wanted to black out.

Midnight. Shit.

A handful of hours should have been enough to revive him for the next few days. Yet he’s far from rested.

Strands of lights twinkle overhead. Too many sheets ensnare him, courtesy of Merry. Too many quandaries congest in his mind, also courtesy of Merry. Muttering obscenities, Anger batters the pillow.

The hammock overturns. His pride follows.

The alcove’s canopy inverts as the miserable cot rotates, flipping him upside down. Anger’s reflexes spare him from crashing. He grips the canvas, legs wrapping around the material, then he hovers two feet off the ground, dangling like a fucking sloth.

Really, he should just let go. It’ll appear less funny to the female watching him.

Merry’s silhouette fills the entrance, her curves outlined in a nimbus of pink. The goddess’s hand clamps over her mouth, and her shoulders shake.

Fucking fantastic. Anger cannot decide if she’s the best or worst person to witness his demise.

Merry cocks her head. “Need rescuing?”

Indignant, he grumbles, “Go ahead and laugh.”

“Now why would I ever do that?”

“Then I take it, your giggling is merely an illusion.”

“It must be. I mean, what would I find uproarious about this situation? Just because you look like a rotisserie—”

“I have changed my mind,” he snaps. “Go away.”

Naturally, the request is ignored. Her feet strike into motion, approaching him.

No fucking way is he playing the damsel. Snarling and muttering to himself, Anger untangles his limbs from the humiliating position and rises to his full height. He towers before Merry in the dark, yet her long legs compensate, her presence statuesque. Moreover, the goddess’s hair glows like a beacon, illuminating the rooftop and possibly the galaxy.

Anger would do well to avoid bright things. They’ll only lure him to his demise.

Unfortunately, Merry’s attire does little to dissuade that inclination. A dainty nightgown clings to her body, accentuating a pair of long limbs, narrow hips, and the crescents of her breasts. For some reason, she has paired the scanty garment with cloud-themed slippers—literal puffy clouds—and a fuzzy robe. But while the latter should spoil the effect, it does the opposite. By some perverted twist of fate, this female manages to look sexy and endearing at the same time.

Nonetheless, Anger resents that atrocious robe for existing. It’s an inconvenience that blocks the rest of her flesh from view, the fantasy of which stokes his curiosity like a hot poker prodding at flames.

The satin creases. The delicate lace. The slender contours.

Stars almighty. A disturbing profusion of liquid fizzes through his veins.

In tandem, her eyes rush over his bare chest, down to the low waistband of his jeans. Palpitations flutter against her throat, and the billowing neckline plunges between her tits, the points of which harden into buds. When those orbs float once more to him, a peachy hue floods Merry’s cheeks. Too late, she has realized Anger can see through the textile, the tips of her nipples poking under the fabric.

She tucks the robe nearer, yanking on the ties to fully enclose the gown. Anger’s disappointment is unreasonable. Even more ludicrous, he has the urge to rip open every frilly layer of fabric and see what could be his. His actions would shock the goddess, but it would also please her, provided he took this deception that far.

Anger flexes his fingers. He wants his longbow and quiver. He wants to shoot something, to fix something, to control something.

Merry pads over to the cot and settles on the edge. She crosses her feet at the ankles, the hammock sinking beneath her ass without incident.

“Aren’t you going to join me?” she asks.

“You’re hogging the space,” he lies.

“Never fear. I’ve got the midnight fussies like you.”

“I do not get fussy. I get furious. And you hibernated just this morning.”

“That doesn’t count.” Merry yawns, stretching her arms and splitting the robe again, ties be damned. “I wish I could rest more. It’s such a thrill sleeping at eventide, isn’t it? Bathed in starlight? But maybe if we share, the night will go easier.”

Two deities. One hammock.

Not a good idea.

Yet as Merry slinks into the cot, Anger cannot bring himself to dull the hopeful light in her gaze. After a moment’s hesitation, he takes up the opposite side, easing into the space across from her, mollified when the hammock stays put.

Merry stretches out her legs and crosses them at the ankles. To avoid making physical contact, Anger steeples his limbs, his soles planting on either side of her knees.

This should be awkward. He has never lounged this closely to a goddess he hasn’t fucked. Nonetheless, the arrangement feels inviting and more natural than he would have predicted.

Draping his wrists over his knees, Anger reclines and studies Merry. He also rarely initiates conversations. However, that comes effortlessly with this female.

“You sleep more than necessary, merely for the ambience,” he summarizes.

Merry nestles into her side of the hammock. “I sleep more than necessary in order to dream,” she corrects. “I love to dream, and my bed is convenient for that.”

What else is her bed convenient for?

Shit. Images of Merry’s splayed limbs, three of his fingers sliding into her cunt, and her shuddering body invade Anger’s one-track mind. At his behest, she would discover her relentless effect on him, the nightgown shredded to ribbons, her open thighs jolting to the violent rhythm of his hips.

A bolt of lust streaks up Anger’s cock. Determine to rid himself of the fucking sensation, his conscience dismisses the visions. “What do you dream of?”

It’s a mawkish question, yet he’s eager to know and overcome by a strange sense of pride when Merry smiles. “I dream of seeing where I come from someday. I dream of music that hasn’t been composed yet. I dream of magic yet to be discovered. I dream of making a home with someone special. And I dream a lot about ice cream.”

Something in his chest compresses. For what they have denied Merry, Anger wants to bring his sovereigns to their knees, force them to beg this goddess’s forgiveness. He wants to show her the world in which she was born. He wants to see her rip open those immortal gates and take their realm by storm. And a disturbing part of him wants to stand beside her when she does it.

To her other wishes, Anger’s mouth quirks. Fondness eases the tightness inside him.

“It has been a while since I’ve called a place my own. If ever,” he reflects, appraising her residence. “In this, you are fortunate.”

Merry rewards him with another grin. “Tell me about all the spectacular places you’ve lived.”

Infectious female, often getting him to oblige. Then again, when was the last time he partook in a conversation like this? When was the last time he wanted to ply someone with questions until the sun rose? When has he ever been this curious about another living soul? But while he would rather know more about Merry, it’s refreshing to disclose something personal.

It’s nicer… with her.

He talks about growing up in The Dark Fates, wielding the power of fury, and regulating mortal fates. He reminisces about the urban towns, parched deserts, and war zones to which he has been assigned over the past millennia. He tells her of the tempers that he has either intensified or diluted, depending on what each human has needed.

Mostly, it has been the latter. Mortals get riled quickly. It takes fortitude, accountability, and humility to calm down. That is where Anger has helped.

He’s proud of his timeline. At least, until he notices Merry’s frown, the space between her dark eyebrows puckering.

Anger does not care for this reaction, nor for being the cause of it. He switches direction, speaking of his banishment.

All the while, she withholds her own tale. The longer she does this, the greater his intrigue. More than asking, he wants Merry to allocate the details without being prompted, to confide them of her own volition.

This notion hits a nerve. It’s a ridiculous wish, given he’s the one lying about his true intentions toward her.

“So you’ve been without a home all this time?” Merry asks. “Wandering, never taking up permanent residence outside of The Dark Fates?”

“I like fresh air,” he tries to joke. “You said it yourself, it’s diverting to sleep ‘beneath infinity.’ I’m sure you have reasons for choosing an observatory?”

“But if you could have a new home of your own, a dwelling that wasn’t just assigned to you. If you could have that, what would it include? What would you surround yourself with?” She points at him and mock lectures, “You have to be honest but inventive.”

Chimerical female. She’s changing the subject, albeit the question distracts Anger from confronting her.

He gives the inquiry considerable thought. Love prefers forests. Wonder would live eternally in a botanical garden if she could. Envy has a bond with water. And Sorrow… well, who the fuck knows with her? The moody goddess keeps most of her partialities to herself. She is afraid to voice them, perhaps because they hurt too much to expose. Anger won’t fault her for that.

“It would be someplace calm,” he answers. “A place of heat and light, elevated above the ground.”

“Let me guess,” Merry teases. “To display the rank of a superior deity.”

“Oh well, naturally there’s that,” he finds himself playing along, unable to resist her whimsical nature. “Actually, to better see the range of this world.”

“That sounds beautiful. And a panoramic view, so you can see your birth star.”

“Remind me never to play a guessing game with you.”

She beams. “So by elevated, you mean somewhere close to the sky.” But then her eyes narrow in deliberation. “No. Close to something in the sky.”

Anger contemplates his flame tattoos. “The sun.”

“Is that why you inked yourself with fire symbols?”

“I did not create them. They appeared when I forged the wings in secret. I thought the latter would help me flee storms, get closer to a place where tempests don’t exist.” He turns away. “It must sound preposterous.”

“It doesn’t,” she says quietly. “Not to someone who likes to pretend she’s taking flight on her motorcycle.”

Something twists inside him, loosening like a rusted bolt. With this female, confessions have a way of jumping off his tongue, a visceral response he cannot seem to regret. It’s strangely liberating.

He settles his gaze back to hers. “For some reason, the tattoos enable me to feel heat. At least, where I’m marked. Though, the sensation also gives me a lucid comprehension of how it would feel everywhere else.”

“What?” Merry scrambles upright. “Truly? I’ve never heard of a deity feeling that! What’s it like?”

“Aggressive. Combative. Fierce. Vigorous. And—”

“Passionate?”

Yes.

“No,” Anger grumbles. “Energized. Akin to your blood racing or the sensation of scraping an abrasive object across your flesh.” Yet when Merry just stares in rapt fascination, Anger’s voice drops to a murmur. “Perhaps I will demonstrate heat to you one day. Provided you behave yourself.”

Fuck. That wasn’t supposed to come out the way it did. Yet the flush saturating Merry’s face assures him she takes it as such.

Back to the damn subject. “As for my ideal dwelling, it would indeed be close to the sun. Heat. Light. I divulged how I don’t care for storms; they have always seemed more wrathful than any power my arrows once wielded. However, elements born of the sun are mightier and lasting. Storms pass, but the sun burns eternally.”

“And light is never fully extinguished,” Merry finishes.

Anger’s eyebrows pinch together. “It appears you're capable of reading minds and forgot to mention it.”

“Aha! Maybe it’s more than that. Maybe we’re soulmates.”

She’s only half-jesting, but Anger sobers. This morning, he had wanted Merry’s light back, the resplendent gleam of her presence. But a small, mangled part of him had also wanted Merry to possess red eyes and dark hair. He’d wanted her to wear a black dress and a conniving smirk on her face. He wanted her to be so petite that she would have to stand on tiptoes for a gut-wrenching kiss, would have to strain her naked legs to fully hook them around his waist.

No. It’s not that he truly wants Merry. He just wants her company, her radiance keeping the loneliness at bay.

Merry does not deserve to be treated like this. To be used as a pawn.

“Uh-oh,” she teases. “I see that scowl. Is it insomnia? Because I have a cure.” She produces two sets of cordless earbuds from the robe’s pocket. “My headphones are better, but these will do.”

The apparatuses distract Anger from his grim thoughts. Immortal objects are powered by The Stars’ magic. Even so, he quips, “You were born with speakers attached to your ears, is that it?”

“Music soothes the weary soul.”

“No electro-pop shit. No whiny love ballads. No folk of any kind. No—”

“Anger. Trust me.”

She extends a set for him. Relenting, Anger stuffs the device into his ears.

A melodic voice drifts through the speakers, accompanied by the fluctuations of a violin. Anger blinks, the music soothing the kinks in his muscles and inciting an unexpected response.

Pleasure. Fascination.

Merry burrows into the hammock and stares at the canopy, while he fixates on her. The tune is hypnotic, the lyrics lacking direction but not substance. There’s something enduring about this song, which builds to a crescendo, tugging on a foreign place within him.

The next track plays. As it does, Merry marvels at humanity’s ability to express itself with music. While deities detect emotions in mortals through taste, touch, texture, sound, and sight, she believes understanding humans takes more than an arrow’s strike.

“It takes empathy,” she professes. “The senses only identify feelings. But music sinks deeper into the soul, reaching a place we all have.”

“Not me,” Anger insists.

“Well, that’s because you’re an obstinate misanthrope with no imagination.”

“It is because I’m a rational immortal.”

“Another word for it is snobby.”

“And another word for you is irritating.”

She bumps him with her toe. “Be quiet and listen.”

Lips twitching with amusement, he obeys. There is a certain tangibility to what she’s saying, something relatable. And not just in the music, but in this exchange. This moment and the female at its epicenter.

The music drowns him. He submerges himself, his eyelids growing heavy and his legs extending, resting across the blankets.

When he awakens, dawn threads across the sky outside the alcove. He feels rested, with the buds still lodged in his ears. Against him, a soft body stirs.

His head whips to the side. An unconscious Merry curls into his torso, her parted lips exposing the divide in her front teeth. By divine intervention, they must have joined on one side of the hammock during the night.

Presently, they lay on her end, which means Anger had crawled over to Merry at some point. They’re entwined and clinging like shrink-wrap. With her thigh slumped across his lap, her face nuzzling beneath his jaw, and his arm enfolding her, Anger feels contentment and a novel sort of peace.

For a while, he watches her dream of a land she has never seen, music she’s yet to hear, and all the ice cream she wants. Fuck it all. The sight is a terrifying balm to his senses.

Merry’s eyelashes fan open, her irises flickering up at him. A lazy grin spreads across her face, which shifts the star-dusted freckles across her nose.

This goddess is more than just pretty. She’s fucking stunning.

Yet that is not the reason why Anger’s sternum experiences a painful jolt. Rather, it’s that she’s glad to see him.

When has anyone ever reacted this way to his presence? And when was the last time he felt the same?

He was only ever tormented or enraged by Love. But happy to see her? Never.

Neither of them utters a word. Their breathing syncs, her breasts rising and falling with his chest, her filmy nightgown rustling against his coarse jeans.

Slowly, Anger’s gaze plummets to her lips. He could flip her over, span her thighs apart, and sink his tongue into her soft pussy. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time he has lavished a female. Only he suspects Merry would taste a thousand times better, her moans infinitely more resonant than the music she loves, her wetness capable of drowning Anger.

Stars help him. He needs to move before his aching cock does something rash.

He must look predatory, something in his gaze urging Merry backward. To his gratitude, she’s the first to break away.

Slipping backward, she whispers conspiratorially, “Let’s go see the sunrise.”

Because she had used the robe for a blanket, Merry abandons it on the hammock. Anger takes one lingering look at the nightgown hugging her figure, the garment concealing more temptations than an erotic novel.

Seething under his breath, he snatches the robe. Crushing the material, he follows Merry past the hedges to the roof’s edge, the sky glazing his bare shoulders and her exposed legs.

The distant carnival glitters, scattering light across the city despite it being morning. Anger wants to tell her that he had enjoyed the music last night, had understood what she’d said, had luxuriated in seeing her rested face and feeling her body flush with his. He wants to tell her everything without artifice, then haul her back to the hammock and prove he means every word.

Merry crosses her arms atop the parapet, her enameled fingernails painted in the same medley of colors as the carnival. “Why are you so proud to control humans?”

It’s not what he expects. “I am not controlling them. I’m serving them, regulating their fates. Why are you so against it?”

“Because I’m not so presumptuous to assume humans would annihilate one another without intervention from deities, as if the so-called lesser beings can’t handle their emotions and need them manipulated,” she says to the view. “You’re not giving them the chance to learn from their own mistakes, just as we aren’t free to rise above ours. Without our flaws, we deny ourselves the opportunity to become stronger, wiser. Every being has the right to be who they are and forge their own paths. We should be shouting this from the rooftops.”

The impassioned discourse wedges into a narrow rift inside him, threatening to expand it. Nevertheless, Anger grips the ledge. “You’ve been sheltered your entire life. What makes you this damn worldly?”

Merry swings toward him. “That’s ignorant. I’m an outcast, but I’m not sheltered. Not from humans, and not while living in a metropolis that’s existed since before our birth. I’ve been watching mortals closer and for longer than even you.”

“Last time I checked, you are not human. You’re the opposite, and from that immortal life, you’ve been sheltered.”

“Fine, but I have kindreds in this city. Most remember The Dark Fates, and I’ve learned plenty from them, in case you’ve forgotten their existence counts too. And you’re still not thinking about mortals, which doesn’t make you a god. It just makes you a belligerent fool. If this keeps up, I’ll have to reevaluate why I carry a torch for someone this infuriating.”

“Fury comes with the job.”

“The one you lost?”

Anger stiffens, the question stabbing him between the ribs. This isn’t news, but hearing it come from Merry’s mouth, the knowledge has a grittier edge, sharp enough to cut. Not least of all, the notion feels absolute, more impactful.

Which is more demeaning? The truth itself? Or hearing Merry voice this truth?

And why the fuck does he care what she thinks? And why the fuck is he still holding the cursed robe?

Merry’s eyes widen, shame crimping her features. “Anger, I’m so sorry,” she repents. “I never think before I speak but simply blurt out whatever comes into my mind, which is rarely good in the company of somebody like Surprise, but with you—”

“I am not here to impress anyone,” he grits out. “I don’t give a shit what you think of me. That would imply you have an effect.”

Merry flinches. She had been harsh, but he’d been horrible. Indeed, he’s a bastard whose mouth had acted ahead of his brain.

Anger opens his mouth to make amends, but Merry isn’t looking at him. She’s gawking over his shoulder.

“Tsk, tsk,” a silken voice drawls. “Is that any way to treat a lady?”

“What did we expect?” someone else remarks. “This douchebag is as hurtful as I am.”

“Nonsense,” a third visitor chimes. “He’s far worse.”

Goddamn them. Anger gnashes his molars. Then he turns.

Three deities. A male with light brown skin, long mahogany hair, and a shit-eating smirk. A female with an inconvenienced glower and silver eyes. And a voluptuous goddess with a cherub’s face and dimples deeper than craters.

Somewhere in this world, mountains are crumbling, icebergs are melting, and the sun is causing heatstroke. Somewhere in this world, his peers are needed.

Yet here they are, standing before him.

Envy. Sorrow. Wonder.