Page 21

21

Merry

It’s been one day. A whole day since that pivotal night on the motorcycle.

Anger hasn’t returned. For her part, Merry copes with the separation by trekking through the observatory and processing. She listens to music and sketches her jaw, the place where he’d gripped her, until all ten fingers get callouses.

His breath in her ear. His mouth stalling inches from her own. His hands yanking up Merry’s skirt, gripping her hard, revving the engine. His waist charging against her ass, his thick cock pounding from behind, the momentum throwing her against the bike. His eyes on her while she ground herself atop the vibrating seat and came so loud The Stars must have heard.

Anger hadn’t climaxed, hadn’t followed Merry’s rapture. Matter of fact, he hadn’t seemed preoccupied with coming at all. He had concentrated only on her bliss, giving no thought to his own release.

The spikes of pleasure had been tremendous, beyond anything she has achieved with her fingers or other deities. No, she isn’t a virgin. Merry is too much of a romantic to have denied herself courtship for nearly three thousand years. Intimacy is a miraculous thing.

Yes, her experience is chiefly with goddesses and a handful of gods that have shared oral delights with her. Though, the flings have never lasted. Merry is regarded highly among outcasts, to the point where she has gained allies against The Dark Fates. However, her dreamy nature hasn’t appealed to anyone long-term. They’ll stand up alongside her, but they won’t bed her more than once. And while this has always been a source of loneliness, Merry hasn’t felt this level of deprivation before.

Anger frustrates and infuriates her. He also challenges Merry and endeavors to understand her, even when he disagrees about free will. Despite that impasse, he listens to her stories, acts protective of Merry without invalidating her ability to defend herself, and grasps what matters to her. Gracious, he had rebuilt Merry’s motorcycle with his bare hands, knowing what the bike meant to her.

He argues with her. But he doesn’t seek to change her.

And the way he holds Merry, gazes at her, touches her. She should be reveling in the aftermath, giddy and gushing. She should be celebrating what happened, awaiting a repeat performance, and replaying the beautiful sight of his wings with gusto.

Instead, Merry huffs. Obstinate god. This world deems her dramatic, even though he’s the one who fled the scene while the climax had still been pulsing through her cunt.

Feeling cross about his absence, she shakes off the disappointment and debates whether to call in Wonder for emotional backup as well as tactical updates. Things have been alarmingly quiet among Malice’s cult, The Fate Court hasn’t made a return appearance, and The Stars have been silent. Yet the latter is no surprise, the celestials’ motives are eternally out of reach, as inscrutable as nature itself. In any case, tidings from The Dark Fates would be most welcome.

But Wonder is busy doing Wonder things. Plus, the goddess had promised to show up when she uncovers more.

Still, it feels like a quiet before the storm. The Fate Court won’t be idle for long. What method of response they’ll give is unknown, except it likely won’t be merciful.

And how to reenter The Dark Fates when all else fails is another matter. If Merry doesn’t enact the legend, what then?

The Archives in The Dark Fates may yield helpful knowledge, but the immortal library is inaccessible to exiles. Wonder is the only one who can effectively breach that place.

Or okay. Exile aside, there is one other deity besides the studious goddess who reportedly has experience with The Archives. A foul, insane outcast from the underworld, who never reveals his cards all at once.

Malice isn’t to be trifled with. More than any other outcast, he knows how to extort information from the sky. Somehow, he might get wind of the legend. If so, what else might he discover? Something to barter with The Fate Court, destroy Merry’s cause, or both?

She experiences a belated, unforgivable epiphany. Shame and trepidation crack like a shell, the contents oozing through her, from the almighty danger, to the spicy love scene yesterday, to the fact that she’s lying to Anger by omitting the legend and her intentions. She’s being as selfish as any deity in existence. Oh, it had seemed harmless at the onset. Her feelings had been true, without masquerades or fake declarations of ardor. On that score, she had been genuine.

Yet she’s been lying in another way. Because her efforts to kindle his soul aren’t entirely authentic, she must atone for this deception and tell him the truth.

In the hammock, Anger had described his idea of a home. With that in mind, Merry heads across the rooftop deck and sets to work.

Hours later, she’s finished. Having changed into overalls decorated with star patches and layered over what mortals call a spandex sports bra, Merry wipes her brow and appraises the alcove. After beseeching The Stars for supplies, the magic had filtered through her, and she’d taken it from there, assembling everything herself. Now she surveys the result, too nervous to congratulate herself on a job well done.

“What is this?” a discordant voice asks.

She spins while dropping a hammer, which thwacks against the floor. So much of Anger fills the alcove entrance, his bulk silhouetted by an eventide sky. From this vantage point, the planks and ramps of his frame resemble the blueprint of a body rather than an actual one.

He’s wearing industrious attire, dark jeans paired with a snug shirt the color of a downpour, the material accentuating the cobbled slab of his torso. The lack of sleeves exposes those fiery tattoos, a bedrock of biceps, and his fingerless gloves.

Anger scans the sequined kerchief strapped around her head and knotted into a bow at the hairline. His attention descends to the fishnet gloves, the baggy overalls, and the sports bra cupping her breasts, the garment leaving her midriff exposed. There had been a time when he would have grimaced in distaste at the ensemble. It’s a new era because now he consumes every detail of Merry’s clothing with rapt attention, then glances in bafflement at the alcove.

“What happened?” he asks. “The hammock is gone.”

That’s not the only thing. Merry has replaced the hammock with a bed she had erected herself, which required multiple spewed obscenities and a series of acrobatics. The Stars had been in a jesting mood, presenting her with an unassembled frame. And instead of the previous frilly linens, nebulous blue blankets and pillows cover the mattress, all of it situated beneath a transparent ceiling.

Lanterns outfit the space, filled with taper candles that emit a foiled glint. It’s safe from storms too. Glass-sliding doors wrap around the makeshift room, to protect him from raging weather.

Merry twiddles her thumbs, then stops when his eyes lurch toward the motion. A hive of bees circumnavigates her stomach. She had expected the heady thrum of excitement, but all she feels is anarchy.

It could be a side effect of ardor. The emotion turns humans into unpredictable versions of themselves, to the point where they do and say things out of character.

“Ta-dah,” she squeaks. “You said you wanted a place of heat and light, with an expanded view of the world. Close to the sun, right?”

Anger’s face slackens. His lips part but nothing comes out.

Unable to stand it, Merry pulls him into the alcove. “I wasn’t sure about thread-counts, but the bed was a no-brainer. It fits your size, so you can toss and turn all you like. And I improvised on your wish to be close to the sun, so the bed is oriented east for the sunrise, plus what better place to have a view of your birth star, since we talked about that too.”

She gestures around. “Aside from that, I chose blue for the firmament. Basically, I attempted to give you the sky, even if it’s not really sky, but if you want everything back to the way it was, that’s fine. It’s just that you’re a guest, and guests should feel at home, and when you told me about never really feeling at home anywhere, well that’s as tragic as never attending a concert or… Anger?”

He doesn’t speak. Instead, the god merely brushes past her and stalks around the space in a daze. Transfixed, he traces his fingers over each item, careful not to break anything.

A lump forms in Merry’s throat, and she doesn’t know if it’s his timidity, the hesitancy of his movements, or six-thousand other possibilities.

Maybe he likes it. Maybe he hates it.

Maybe she has upset or discomforted him. In any case, an unspoken question broadcasts from Anger long before he whispers in a hoarse baritone, “Why did you do this?”

Her sensory powers discern the soft texture of awe and the brittle quality of unworthiness. He’s not disturbed by her gesture. Rather, he’s disarmed by it. From breaking celestial law by keeping Love and Andrew’s passion a secret; to hiding his wings for his crew’s sake, for fear of implicating them; to repairing Merry’s beloved motorcycle; to safeguarding her from The Fate Court’s attack, this god is so used to doing things for others. But he’s not accustomed to others doing something for him.

“I did this because I wanted to,” Merry confides. “Like I said, I can change it back, return things to the way they were. It’s up to you, it’s your choice, since I didn’t ask what you’d like, but I wanted to surprise you—and wow, do you ever look surprised. I wanted you to be comfortable here, and I thought it might ease the angst after last night.

“By the way, I’ve been intimate with deities before. Not that we actually had sex, but I think you should know. It’s impossible to go this long without having trysts. The first time happened with Courage, then with Trust, and well, you get the idea. So don’t worry. I’m mad and offended that you flew off without saying a word, and believe me, I’ll get on your case for that soon enough. Regardless, what happened between us didn’t scare me, since I’m a super fan of your touch. I would have loved to end that moment by kissing you. But…” She musters a smile. “If you feel only friendship, that’s okay. Friends are a good thing, except I’m currently experiencing a bout of queasiness. So I’m going to leave you now, since I’ve been talking too much, and you need… whatever it is you need.”

Merry motions to the alcove. “Make yourself at home.”

Then she darts off. The moment she turns away from Anger’s slack features, her face crumbles in mortification. Retreating to the chaise lounge at the rooftop’s center, she flops onto the seat, her skin awash in mood lighting. Properly quarantined as if suffering from a lovesick virus, she dumps her face into her palms.

Fine. That wasn’t the most eloquent speech. But then, at least she has warmed herself up to berate him later, which is more pressing anyway. Outfitting his space was an exception. It doesn’t mean she’s going to let Anger off the hook about his disappearing act. Once this lapse is over, she’ll rip into him.

As for the rest, well. Honesty between them is more important than love.

“Stars,” she groans into her hands, the words muffled. “Some love goddess you are.”

“Merry.”

Her head flips up to see Anger stalking her way like a firestorm. His hair scatters around his face, even from where it’s tied back, errant strands having loosened. The god’s features are inflamed, aiming at her like a target.

Merry opens her mouth, but he snares her arms and hauls her out of the chair. She gasps, her overalls chafing against his shirt, his fingers denting her biceps, the pressure resurrecting the beehive.

Anger looms. The gust of his breath rushes against her lips as he dips his head, those eyes blasting her with the force of a gale.

“Friends,” he growls in agreement.

And then his turbulent mouth seizes hers.