Transcend Read online

  Transcend

  by Natalia Jaster

  Copyright 2020 Natalia Jaster

  Cover design: Covers by Juan

  https://coversbyjuan.com/

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  ***

  To Michelle and Jessa, for fandoms and friendships

  ***

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About Natalia

  Books by Natalia

  Prologue

  Envy

  Now he knows what pain feels like.

  And maybe one other emotion—a persistent feeling that’s been shadowing him like a pest, that’s been creeping up on him since the day he first lost his mind and touched her. That infamous moment in time, when he’d traced her sarcastic mouth, those lips painted a brooding purple to match her hair.

  In the past, her chronic scowls, dreary clothes like an overcast sky, and perpetual middle finger used to nauseate him.

  Hidden beneath the tough exterior? The watery texture of hurt. The wine-and-fig taste of rapture.

  Those are the parts of her that he wasn’t supposed to discover. Those are the parts that came later.

  She should mean nothing to him, because she’s the last person he has ever wanted. But instead of stopping, they’d continued to touch, and they’d torn each other apart. And then, because there’s always one more way to fuck up, they’d finished the job by tempting one another.

  Yet his transcendence hadn’t begun until the instant he’d asked her a question: What’s your pleasure?

  And in return, she had asked him a question: What’s your pain?

  To this day, to this very night, their answers chip away at his soul.

  Standing opposite each other now, they face off across a chasm.

  Allies against enemies. Enemies against allies.

  Somehow, at some point, the two of them had chosen opposing sides. He can’t remember how it came to this, how they ended up fighting for different endings.

  With the battle raging across the summit, his fingers tighten around his bow. On reflex, she nocks her own weapon. As they aim at one another, he smirks mournfully. This was only ever going to go one way, with only one outcome.

  That’s fate.

  So now he knows what pain feels like, every shift of its curves, every sigh of its breath, and every glint of its irises. He also knows what that other, pesky, final emotion feels like. It’s a permanent one, a stain that he can’t rub off.

  He recalls when destiny had intervened, pairing them against their consent. What’s a god to do when his match is the last person he can stand? He resists.

  That’s what he does. That’s what he did.

  And what does she do? Naturally, she makes him regret it.

  1

  Sorrow

  It’s not the first time he has seen her naked, but it’s the first time she makes him regret it. Sorrow dunks her head beneath the water’s surface, liquid swirling around her, sliding across her calves and rushing up her spine. Dammit, this secluded pond would be paradise if a parasite weren’t spying on her.

  She doesn’t have to look to see where he’s standing, and she doesn’t have to peek to gauge his posture, and she doesn’t have to guess how long he’s been here. She visualizes the large male figure shrouded by a web of branches and gem-tipped leaves. He’s casually leaning his shoulder against the willow tree, its trunk sprouting from the water because in this immortal realm, trees grow from water bodies as well as from land.

  She’d bet his right nut that he’s wearing tweed. Preppy bastard.

  He’s watching me, that fucker. But he doesn’t want to. Not anymore.

  The reality of it congeals between her ribs. Sorrow batters the pond, beats the crap out of it, her arms and limbs swatting fluid out of her way until the cloying sensation abates.

  And if it’s too hard for him to look away, then it’s still too easy for him to look away. Hard isn’t enough. She’d rather make it excruciating.

  Submerged, she pops her eyes open and lets her vision adjust to the fluid around her, the strings of her purple hair weightless and floating. She slows her pace, breast-stroking with a listless rotation of hips and a lazy extension of her thighs.

  Let him see everything.

  Her body shoots upward, breaking the surface with a deep, resentful arc of her vertebrae, her hair whipping back and slapping her skin with enough force that it actually stings. At over two-hundred years old, occasionally she forgets her own strength, the impact she can make on herself.

  While straightening upright, Sorrow sinks her bare soles into the spongy foundation. Despite the swim, it’s a shallow depth, which seems appropriate.

  The pond rises only high enough to cover her hip bones, the upper half of her exposed as she shakes out her sodden tresses. Droplets slither over her tits, the beads coursing an uneven path over her ruched nipples.

  Is the water warm or cold? She wouldn’t know, since gods and goddesses have no idea what temperature is like. So why does her flesh pebble? Is the pond’s texture to blame? Or is it his gaze raking across her wet body?

  Maybe this was a dumb idea. He’s not worth the effort, hasn’t been since they ended things between them.

  The sylvan woodland crowds around the pond, encasing it in a dense oasis. It’s isolated, yet with her ex-lover’s whipcord silhouette and ginormous head filling in the gaps of space, the place shrinks further. He idles by the willow, whose roots claw into the pond and suck up moisture.

  She grabs a few ropes of hair and twists them in a chokehold, excess liquid spilling from the strands. “Are you just going to stand there and gawk, God of Envy?”

  His velveteen voice wastes no time, his reply airborne and curling into atmosphere. “Are you just going to stand there and let me, Goddess of Sorrow?”

  Her feet are stalking in his direction before she realizes it, streams of water ejecting around her and splattering nearby mineral rocks and lily pads. His physique gets larger as she gets nearer, and she stops within smacking distance.

  Burnished complexion. Long, black hair tied in a low ponytail. Straight nose, with an arrogant bump over the bridge.

  Up close, Envy is what he’s always been: an immortal douchebag. Tonight,
he has indeed conjured tweed trousers, plus a button-down shirt tucked into the waistband, the collar gaping open at the throat and the sleeves rolled up his forearms, the white material a stark contrast to his deep, almond skin.

  Even while on a mission like theirs, he can’t resist sprucing himself up as if headed into a high-priced brothel instead of enemy territory. Of all their kind, he’s the only deity who dresses like the human version of a corporate hoe.

  To avoid getting soaked, his trouser hems are jammed up his calves. The effort is pointless and weird since he’s precious about defiling his wardrobe. Case in point, Sorrow tilts her head at the ensemble. “Is that a wrinkle?”

  Envy shoots upright from the tree trunk. Using his palms, he attempts to iron out the offensive creases in the pant hems.

  She makes the mistake of snorting, which earns her a sideways glance. Returning to his original position, Envy crosses his arms over that broad, muscular chest, the expanse of which requires its own map. His hazel eyes sidle down her nudity, from the pert nipples to the glistening patch of dark hair between her legs. “You should pay attention to your own wrinkles instead. Unless you’d like me to smooth them out for you.”

  Because she’s dripping, it would be hilarious to shake herself and spritz his outfit with algae. But that would mean he’s worth her time.

  That would mean his words affect her.

  For all she knows, he’s come here to coo over his reflection in the pond, but her presence has ruined it, just like he’d ruined her swim.

  “You’re neglecting your beauty sleep,” she taunts.

  “As if I need it,” he scoffs, patting the errant strands of his mane. “Now ask me what you really want to.”

  “You’re only prompting me so you can give the answer that you really want to.”

  “By all means, then. What are we waiting for? Ask away.”

  “What are you doing out here, pretty god?”

  “Why? Do I get a spanking, my nymph?”

  Yep. He couldn’t wait for an opportunity to be a hotshot.

  Sorrow blasts him with a smarmy look. “Actually, I’m just humoring you like the needy tramp you are.”

  Envy’s casual posture doesn’t change. Yet a clumsy light staggers through his eyes. Is it mortification? From him?

  Oh, come on. The chances of that are as high as seeing him in a hoodie.

  His self-adoration is common knowledge. During their brief foray into fuckery over the past couple of years, they hadn’t learned much else about each other, outside of how loud they could get. They’d shared about as many secrets as kisses, which is to say, zero.

  The goal had been sex. Nothing more.

  Envy has the nerve to cross an invisible boundary, leaning forward to get in Sorrow’s face. His gaze aligns with hers, and then he slants his head, his breath a whisper across her jaw. “Oh, I can remember a time when you sounded mighty needy yourself,” he purrs, the words a dense current of air. “I remember you twisting my name into so many different cries. I remember my name broken on your lips. I remember the high pitch of it sliding off your tongue and begging for more.”

  She should have seen that one coming. In hindsight, Sorrow should have never encouraged his body, much less her own. Lust is dangerous. It unhinges the mouth, and the tongue, and the brain until all three collapse in tandem. The effect turns deities into colossal idiots who can’t keep their traps shut, all that moaning having split their lips too far apart, leaving them wide open and spewing things they’ll eventually regret. Things like, “Fuck me.”

  Pulling away, Sorrow quirks an eyebrow. “I’ve got a better question for you: What’s it like to be so desperate for attention, for over two centuries? Now that, I’m curious about.”

  There it is again. That bolt of light, along with a bonus curl of the muzzle, some type of hybrid between a sneer and a snarl. He does another fresh appraisal of her body, dissecting every feature, which is now damp and sticky. When his gaze reaches her lips, words from the past wheedle into her mind.

  I like seeing that snarky little mouth parted. I bet every crinkle would rake against my tongue.

  He’d said that before they’d first gone berserk and pounced on each other. Shortly before. Like, seconds before.

  But tonight, the sight of her lips seems to repel him. He regards Sorrow with flippant distaste, just as he used to regard her when they were younger, like he’s too good for her.

  These days, maybe he can’t fathom what he ever saw in her. Finally, something she relates to.

  They’re unsuited in every way, with his swanky suits and her grungy, shadowy attire. They’ve spent the majority of their lives giving each other the stink eye, even though they’re supposed to be peers. Though for a blink of time, they’d lost their way and gotten carnal.

  It had been a mistake and hadn’t meant anything. It’s over now.

  Envy plucks a limp thread of her hair, then flicks it away, as if it’s a weed. “What’s it like to be desperate for attention for over two centuries, you ask? I might counter that question and inquire what it’s like to be insignificant for the same amount of time. With that scrawny frame and loner attitude, it’s a mystery that you haven’t simply disappeared into thin air. Not that anyone would miss you.”

  Sorrow hikes up her chin. “You’ll have to do better than that.”

  “Believe me, I’ve tried.”

  “Unlike you, I don’t care what my ex-lovers or anybody else thinks about me.”

  “My, my, my. Out of curiosity, do you have a matching t-shirt to go with that bullshit?”

  “No, but I’ve got a slap to go with your face.”

  “Has anyone ever told you how beautiful you look when you’re grouchy?”

  “Nope.”

  “Indeed. That’s because you’re not. By comparison, I regret to inform you that slapping me wouldn’t change a thing about my face. It’d still be prettier than creation itself. By the way, let the celestial record show that I wasn’t out here because of you. Everything I do is all about me.”

  “In that case, go fuck yourself.”

  “Precisely.” His grin should come with an explicit content rating. “What do you think I was coming out here to do?”

  The reply causes Sorrow to tense, right down to her ass cheeks. Based on his prizewinning expression, Envy thinks his pecker is a sculpted work of art that needs routine polishing.

  So that’s what lured him here. Of course, it hadn’t been her. Naturally, he hadn’t noticed Sorrow leaving their encampment, while he and the rest of their friends—no longer a class of five archers, but a band of eight rebels—slept in their respective corners of the forest.

  The silence that follows wriggles beneath her skin, making her restless to supplement the quiet with additional insults, or at least a few extra jibes. Now that getting freaky is no longer an option, how else will they pass the time?

  Matter of fact, what are they still doing standing here?

  An adolescent dragonfly buzzes into the woods, a streak of silver skating across the water’s surface. The pond quivers, lapping Sorrow and Envy’s calves. Like chips of glass, constellations pierce the violet sky and produce tiny, scattered rifts in the hemisphere.

  One of the stars trembles, as if it’s about to fall. For some reason, it reminds her of a myth that circulates in their world. Something about the almighty stars shining their greatest only when a deity is ready to hear the truth.

  In any case, the firmament has never looked almighty to Sorrow. Rather, it has always reminded her of scars, a fragile surface poked by too many holes, impossible to stitch up. If anyone but Envy were standing beside her, she might consider sharing this observation.

  Anyone else’s reaction would be safer.

  A shift in her periphery jerks Sorrow out of her thoughts. She startles as Envy’s fingers tug on the wet bandage across the bridge of her nose. “When are you going to remove this pointless accessory?”

  She whacks his digits away. “Just as
soon as you get rid of yours,” she retorts, jerking her chin toward the spot between his legs. “Or do you need help locating it?”

  “You dare offend the immortal cock?”

  “What I do, or don’t do, is no one’s business. Never has been, never will be.”

  “Of course, not. That would require you actually mattering to someone.”

  Hate stings the rims of her eyes. “So that’s it. We’re back to where we started.”

  “Oh, my clueless nymph.” It’s almost apologetic, and remorseful, and yearning when his palm cups her cheek, his thumb stroking her lower lip. “What made you think we’d ever detoured?”

  Her teeth are near enough to sever a finger, but she restrains herself. “Even more accurate.”

  “Marvelous.”

  “Great.”

  “Fine.”

  “Perfect.” But Sorrow weighs the rustle of leaves behind him, her knuckles bending into fists as she curses the Fates, because destiny has got to be kidding, right? “Except not really, since I think we’re about to detour right now.”

  “Oh?” he invites. “Why’s that?”

  If anything, Sorrow can always say that he hadn’t distracted her as much as she had him. With that in mind, she measures him with an angsty, inconvenienced grin. Matching his condescension with her own, she murmurs, “Because we’re not alone.”

  Envy stiffens. Realization tweaks his pristine face into something resembling chagrin. Better yet, shame. But he tamps it down and thankfully gets his crap together, peering into her eyes, evidently searching for a reflection of their surroundings.

  They stare at each other. Then they dive, dodging the arrow that shoots toward them.

  2

  Sorrow

  With an aerial twist, Sorrow spirals into the air beside Envy. Mid-flight, she imagines the synchronized arc of their bodies, parallel and springing before she crashes through the surface. On impact, a chaos of liquid dashes out of the way, then swarms her upon descent. She plunges in, the deluge gushing around her like a vortex.

  Her lids part, seeking out Envy through the cluster of vines—through which another arrow cuts a path straight for her, its point a flashing asterisk. Sorrow swerves, avoiding the projectile. It torpedoes past her and misses shearing Envy’s torso as he pumps his limbs out of range.