Page 19

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Merry

She’s unsure in which order it happens. Whether the god halts prior to his eyes sinking below her clavicles and landing on her puckered nipples. Whether she shrieks and dunks herself first. Whether his eyes balloon before or after she causes a tidal wave, the tsunami slapping his torso and drenching his shirt. Whether Anger trips because he’s dumbfounded, or whether he slips on the water that has splashed the tiles. Either way, he crashes to the floor.

Merry shrieks and burrows into the tub, then peeks over the bubbles. “Oh, Stars! Are you okay?”

“Fucking hell!” he grits out, peeling himself off the tiles while averting his eyes. “Fuck, I didn’t know—”

“I’m not finished—”

“Right, I’ll just—”

“If you give me a moment—”

“I’ll give you a moment.”

“If you wait on the roof—”

“I’ll wait on the roof.”

The second he’s gone, Merry’s wet hand slaps over her mouth. For shame, her rogue tits had been pointing at him like flashlights.

But that’s not what makes this a fiasco. Rather, it’s that she hadn’t composed herself.

Neither had he, which doesn’t make sense. Anger is cantankerous, but he doesn’t strike her as a prude.

Merry takes a minute to process. The source of his fall is obvious. She lays the blame on her excessive reaction and the fact that he could have knocked.

By the time she’s dressed in fully lined organza and marching outside, her pulse has slowed down. Anger is pacing in a narrow lane of twinkle lights, his mandible fixed, his shoulders battering leaves out of his way. A twilit sheen highlights his half-tied hair. He whips toward her before she’s made herself known, then scans her body to make sure she’s covered.

His voice blasts a hole in the sky. “Why the fuck didn’t you lock the bathroom door?”

“For the same reason you’re a numskull,” Merry throws back, hackles rising. “For the same reason you didn’t consider knocking first. We weren’t thinking.”

Yet their reactions are scarcely warranted. Nudity is a nonissue among their kind. He saw her breasts, not her darkest fantasies.

Which is why…

Enlightenment brightens Merry’s mood. “Ah. Now I know why we’re cranky and irrational. We haven’t been fed yet.” She snaps her fingers. “Come with me.”

Inexplicably, panic floods his tone. “Wait,” he stresses, digging his heels into the floor. “Merry wait.”

“Oh, right. Let’s manifest in the courtyard. It’ll be quicker.”

While it’s not her favorite mode of transit, Merry closes her eyes, her body growing as weightless as a plume. The world spins, then goes still. Emerging in the building’s secluded quad, she takes a deep breath as a gust of air sweeps through her clothes, signaling Anger’s arrival.

As predicted, he has materialized directly instead of flying. How tragic that he hasn’t allowed himself to exercise those beautiful panels since the night they met.

Merry contemplates voicing this opinion. However, she turns to find him gazing at her with a strange expression, his eyes wide and watchful. One might call it dread or timidity. Maybe he’s still rattled by what transpired in the bathroom.

The god opens his mouth to speak, but she snatches his hand and hauls him along. “Now then. We have countless options for dining ambience in this realm, but either way a change of scenery is essential.”

“Merry,” Anger tries again. “Listen—”

“I’m thinking west if we’re in the mood for peace and quiet.”

“Can you hold on for a fucking sec—”

“Or there’s a river in the south end.” Merry points toward the quad’s arched exit, beyond which moonlight burnishes the lamplit streets. “We could manifest there too, but…”

Her breathing stalls, words fleeing her tongue. Her eyes land on a shiny object parked in the courtyard’s center.

No. Not just any object.

The vehicle is enameled in a glossy, metallic blue. It has two familiar wheels, a set of handle grips, and a pair of mirrors reflecting her shock. Merry’s mouth falls open, her eyes stinging as she drifts toward the conveyance.

It can’t be. She had watched it crash to pieces in the carnival.

Padding cautiously toward the vehicle, she glides a palm over the rear fender, the seat, the fuel tank, and finally the headlight. Steel hums beneath her skin, the vibration reaching down to her bones like a living entity. Her own roaring dragon on wheels, which has been her companion for most of her exiled life.

This isn’t a replica. This is her motorcycle.

Steps halt behind Merry, a toned shadow stretching across the ground. Hesitation strains Anger’s voice. “It was meant to be a surprise.”

He did this? But how? And when?

Merry swallows. She’s been suffering the loss every day, but although she hadn’t shown it, Anger had noticed. And while she had considered fixing the bike herself, she hadn’t been able to stomach the thought of making an error.

Because she’s incapable of uttering a syllable, Anger grunts and forges ahead, putting together more sentences than he ever has. “I am aware of what you said about replacing it with another one, so I did not beseech The Stars for that. But since I know absolute shit about rebuilding these contraptions, I did ask the celestials for instruction, which tested my patience to no goddamn end. Trust me, it took more failed attempts, tedious mistakes, and outbursts than I want to rehash, so don’t request a summary, because you’re not getting it. In any case, it is done and fixed. I owed you for the carnival attack and even before that, when you brought me to your house after the first battle with Malice. I never did thank you for that, so…”

But when Merry still doesn’t speak, Anger makes a hissing noise. “Fuck it all, I know it’s not the best restoration job, but I am not a fucking mechanic, and—”

Merry whirls toward him and flings her arms around his shoulders. She crushes Anger to her chest, finally shutting him up.

“Thank you,” she whispers, her voice cracking. “Thank you so much.”

His arms extend outward, hovering for a moment before banding around her waist, the strength of his grip akin to a silent confession. This male will never admit what he feels because words aren’t his style. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have fumbled over that speech. He’s not about to wax poetic about his emotions, but he’ll repair something that matters to Merry, he’ll understand that she likes surprises, and he’ll fret over when to reveal it to her.

He’s a deity of actions. That’s how he shows he cares.

Doubt fills his baritone. “So, er… you are pleased?”

“It’s my motorcycle,” she chuckles tearily over his shoulder. “Of course, I’m pleased!”

Then she pulls back, drops a kiss to Anger’s cheek, and spins toward the bike. Giddiness flutters in her stomach. Squealing, she races toward her favorite piece of equipment and straddles the vehicle, then veers around and pats the passenger seat. “What are you waiting for, rage god?”

But Anger just stands there, her lipstick smeared on his cheek. Merry refuses to believe this male has never been embraced by a deity, nor does she wish to think about how many lovers he’s consummated with, but Anger’s gobsmacked expression is nevertheless priceless. Hardly a virgin in his millennia of living, yet an affectionate peck renders him speechless.

Once he recovers, a scowl creases his features. However, his eyes tell a different story, brimming with satisfaction. And maybe something more.

Out of the courtyard and down the winding streets, she coasts with Anger girdling her waist. Soon enough, they’re sitting on a quad bench surrounded by thickets of laurel trees while dining on conjured scoops of ice cream.

The sweet coating of vanilla seeps into Merry’s palate, inciting a moan of rapture. Someday, she’ll try a different flavor. Honestly, she will.

She’d chosen bitter chocolate for Anger, which the god is devouring either because he’s ravenous or in a hurry, his teeth crunching the sugar cone to bits. What’s more, every time she makes a noise of rapture, he scoots farther away.

“Sugar always hits the spot,” she quips once they’re finished. “I might even go crazy and have another.”

“We have this delicacy in The Dark Fates,” Anger says with a grimace. “Except it’s translucent and tastes like pickles.”

A horrified laugh bursts from Merry’s lips. “That sounds like a punishment.”

“You’re not missing anything. Are you eating that ice cream or fucking it?”

She blinks. “What kind of question is that?”

Absently, she licks a droplet from the corner of her mouth, which only exasperates him further. “Never mind,” he grouses. “Whatever the answer, just do so quietly.”

“I’m not very good at doing anything quietly.”

Again, the reply unnerves Anger to the point where he snaps, “New topic. Have you tried learning archery aside from our practice session on the roof?”

“I’ve borrowed weapons from my kindreds a few times. But unlike other exiles, I was snubbed before forging a bow of my own. That’s why the motorcycle became my true calling. More than shooting an arrow, I’ve always been interested in being the arrow. I like moving fast, feeling the wind race past me, seeing the world’s beauty fly by.” She glances fondly at the parked bike. “It’s the only weapon I need. Like your archery, the bike is mine alone, something I created for no one but myself, not an object destiny assigned to me or that I forged merely as a compensation for things I don’t have. I’d never choose any other source of speed or travel, even if it’s not as fast as having wings like Eros or… you and Love.”

Anger stares, rapt by her speech. Be that as it may, Merry can’t disguise the hitch in her tone. The subtle but righteous indignation, the disappointment that has less to do with herself or Love, and more to do with Anger and his choices.

He wavers, a question engrossing his profile, an inquiry that seeks clarification. But instead of asking Merry to elaborate, he twists toward her, brackets his elbow atop the bench’s backrest, and changes direction. “So if the Goddess of Love is likened to Eros, then who is everyone else?”

Merry considers the prompt. “Sorrow is Oizys. Envy is certainly Narcissus. And Wonder? Persephone because she’s adaptable, though that also makes her vulnerable to temptation. Aside from the obvious like her passion for wildflowers, she seems trapped between two worlds—the land above and below, like she’s overcome by grief as well as adoration.”

Anger contemplates the inky horizon. “Yes, she is.”

If that’s true, it’s tragic. Merry’s soul bleeds for the goddess, because whatever plagues her friend, likely it has to do with the scars on Wonder’s hands.

They sit in silence, letting those thoughts sink in.

“And what about you?” Anger asks.

Merry gives a start. For all her daydreaming, she has never compared herself to anyone from human mythology. Not even Eros.

Thinking of her favorite hedge sculpture in Midnight Park, she grins. “Aphrodite.”

Anger frowns. “You’re hardly the vain type who would curse anyone more beautiful than yourself.”

“Okay, maybe not that part,” she concedes with a chuckle. “But if this is a game, I get to cherry pick the goddess’s qualities. Aphrodite represents love, harmony, and union.”

“Mmm. At first, I’d have guessed Apollo. Paragon of music, light, and the sun. Except—”

“Except he’s arrogant and abused women who spurned him.”

“Which is why I wasn’t finished.” Anger pauses. “Aphrodite. A goddess of war, such as a rebellion against fate. And a goddess of beauty.”

“Meaning, my ravishing good looks?”

But he doesn’t laugh at the quip. “Meaning, the eyes through which you see the world.”

The reply strikes her like an arrow. She’d been planning to include the war aspect of Aphrodite, but she hadn’t considered the latter. Yet Anger speaks as if he’s been thinking for a long time about how Merry perceives the world. As if she’s an inspiration.

Later, as they straddle her motorcycle, Anger’s palms settle on Merry’s hips, fingers digging in. “The truth is greater, Merry. You do not need to be Eros, Aphrodite, or anyone else.”

She grips the handle bar. “I know.”

Although the universe doesn’t agree with them, and while Merry hardly needs this god to appraise her worth, she appreciates the gesture.

If only he felt the same value in himself.

Anger’s torso shudders against her spine. His breath ghosts across her earlobe. “And who am I?”

She revs the bike. An image materializes in her head, including a dark silhouette backdropped by the sun and then falling from the sky. “Figure it out for yourself.”

Then they’re off, rocketing down the streets. The city blurs to a puddle on either side, vibrant eventide colors clashing with the shadows. Constellations flicker across the sky. Someplace up there, legends and myths dwell for eternity among science, the real and unreal coexisting.

Merry’s hair flutters behind her, but Anger doesn’t bat away the strands. He only squeezes her waist, tugging her harder into the strong bands of his arms.

On impulse, she drives them through an alley of star chandeliers. The plate of his chest bumps against her as they vault off a sidewalk and veer around a corner. She accelerates, throttling as they plunge down a hill, the wind buffeting his shirt and turning her skirt into a parachute. And this is what it’s like to be a shooting star.

She tilts her head back, allowing his stubble to graze the side of her neck, his hold tightening on her. For an amateur, this next move would be foolish. But she has trained for ages, therefore Merry releases the handles and lifts her arms. Anger mimics the action, like she’d hoped he would. Going further, their fingers intertwine as velocity and gravity take over. Their hands link overhead, and his heavy outtakes rush against the crook between her neck and shoulder, his mouth resting there, on the brink of no return.

The contact draws liquid from the crease in her thighs, the folds of her pussy aching, the bike exacerbating the friction. He’s everywhere. Behind her, around her, within her. And yet, she’s the one in control, exploding into motion, driving them where she wishes.

Anger makes a guttural noise against Merry’s flesh. Any moment, he’ll bury those teeth into her throat, and they’ll crash to earth.

Merry slows the motorcycle, coasting to the street level. Their arms lower, but their hands remain clasped, one set of fingerless gloves plaiting over her midriff, the other seizing a handlebar.

The bike rolls in front of the observatory courtyard. The chests pump, Anger’s respirations deepening alongside her own. Other than their combined exhalations, there’s no other competing noise.

Maybe they’ve gotten used to moving in unison, because after a climactic moment, Merry veers half of her body around in her seat. At the same time, Anger twists his head toward her, those eyes consuming her own.

An invisible force raids the space between their lips. It’s a static restlessness, a magnetic buzz that pulls them closer.

Anger’s famished gaze drops to her mouth.

Oh, Stars. Oh, gracious Stars.

His body is a drum pounding into hers, and a muscle ticks in his jaw, the sight making her wetter. She doesn’t know what heat feels like beyond Anger’s prior description, but she has a vivid imagination, an intuitive muscle she’s been training for thousands of years. And he’s the most forthright male she has ever known. Therefore, his stare makes it clear what it means to burn, the force of his gaze a blazing entity that sears a path across her lips.

Blood rushes to her cunt, her lungs hyperventilate, and her brain fills with helium because she’s a second from fainting or impersonating a mortal in the throes of a coronary.

He inches closer. She meets him halfway. Then they pause, one drawn breath away from more .