1 Year Later

The Island, 2009

At the center of all the attention is Sawyer, dressed in an elaborately embroidered tunic and a blooming flower crown. As I approach, he doesn't notice me and continues his animated conversation with a group of tween girls.

"That's not even the worst part." Sawyer leans forward and lowers his voice. "He said that women were supposed to want a bunch of kids because it's in your nature."

"Ew, what?" Olive shrieks, and the friends standing around her all gasp in shock. "What if I don't want kids?"

Sawyer purses his lips and throws his hands in the air. All the girls titter angrily at his silent implication.

"Well," Olive gets out in a shaking breath. "I obviously can't continue dating him."

"No," her friends all rush to agree in unison.

"Thank you, James," says Olive. "You saved me from a lifetime of unhappiness."

All of them break out into cries of, "You're the best, James!" One by one, they rush forward to give him a crowded group hug.

"Aw, my pleasure, ladies." Sawyer has never looked so happy and relaxed. "Happy to help," he says and pats at any random shoulder he can reach as the girls continue to hug him.

As soon as Olive and her friends wander off, another group of young girls hurry over to talk to him.

"Hey-hey! Sally-girl!" I'd roll my eyes at him calling her girl if I didn't notice his entire being lights up at the sight of the children. "Love the new haircut! Ah-ha, Little Sophie! When did you get new boots?"

I see my opening at last and say, "Is that a new tattoo?"

"Huh?" Sawyer twists to look over his shoulder and points to one specific tattoo out of the dozens he's gotten over the years. "This one? Got it just last week. Isn't it great? Thyra's got some real talent. And I see your tattoo is finally finished."

A hand flinches down and presses against the Jörmungandr snaking around my ankle, behind my calf, and up my right thigh. Legend says this sea serpent circles the world, biting his tail until the day he releases his grip on himself to signal the start of Ragnarök. It took almost two months and three separate artists to complete, but there was no amount of stinging pain or fear of needles that could have persuaded me not to push through. Last year for our birthday, Ben and I got matching tattoos to cover up the curse on the back of his leg. It felt poetic at the time, but now I also appreciate how cool it looks.

"Yeah," I tell Sawyer. "Wish I would have realized how much tattoos itch. I would have opted for a much smaller one. Hey, if you have a second, can I get your opinion on something?"

Sawyer nods and smiles knowingly. He's my one and only guy friend that I feel comfortable talking to openly about my relationship with Ben. Team Bear is great and all, but Sawyer and Gail are the only people who know about our plans to remain platonic until further notice. Plus, there's always a part of me that worries the Bear's loyalty to Ben will inevitably win out over my desire for them to keep my secrets. Sawyer's loyalty is mine alone, since I'm the one who allows him to stay on an island where his one and only job is to spy on boys at parties and rat them out to their girlfriends if they're secretly voicing harmful bullshit. I'm the island matchmaker, and he's the island matchbreaker. We make a surprisingly effective team.

Once the women of Hydra got word of his good deeds and general helpfulness for their daughters, Sawyer's crappy shack received much needed renovations until it became unrecognizable in its beauty.

"I'm supposed to be irresistible," I rant to Sawyer as soon as we're in his house."Why is Ben resisting? I was at a party the other day, and the second I started to make my way towards him, he disappeared, never to be see again all night."

"He's avoiding you?" Sawyer is usually smiling, and I'm still not used to it because it's such a stark difference from when we first met. "I thought you said my plan was working?"

"It was. For a day or two. Please," I beg. "I need a new plan. I have absolutely no idea how to talk to him about this. It's been a whole week since my 25th birthday, and all he did was give me another piece of jewelry. Don't get me wrong, I like being friends. But I also like being more than friends."

"Not much good sharing this with me," says Sawyer. "Get out there and tell him."

"Tell him what? Hey! So, I know we've been platonic for what seems like forever, but do you want to get naked for the next half-hour and pretend like the last few years never happened?"

Sawyer laughs loudly, and I smile at how much happier he's become over the years. "That actually might work."

"Ugh," I mumble into the hands I've pressed against my face. "I'm going to mess this up. I'm going to mess up our friendship, and then everything's going to feel weird moving forward. Being around him turns me into some kind of sex maniac. It's so embarrassing."

"Why is it embarrassing? It's not like y'all haven't knocked boots before."

I open my mouth to explain why it's embarrassing, but then I realize he's right. It's been years, but we've already made love plenty of times before. What's the big deal?

Sawyer pokes my forehead and snaps me out of my thoughts. "Whatever's cooking in that Goddess brain of yours, do it. No more thinking. Be like Yoda and just do it."

"That's not Yoda, that's Nike."

"You're deflecting." Sawyer frowns for the first time all day. "Damn, you're right. That is Nike."

Calm down, Ben's not actually dead yet.

This is the third nightmare I've had this year about mourning him. I've already saved Ben from blowing up in his own home by suggesting he check the gas hookups in the kitchen. My second vision was that Thor the Third kills Ben to get to me, so I secretly dealt with Thor before he had the chance. Unfortunately, this third vision didn't disclose how Ben dies, it just highlighted that in the aftermath, I don't take it well. Great. This must be what Desmond felt like when he was trying to save Charlie in the original show.

I attempt to wipe my face clear of tears so I can read my journal by my bedroom's faint candlelight, but a wet tapping against my arm is what fully breaks me out of my anxiety attack.

"Mom?" Fenrir calls in the darkness.

Over the past few years, my little boys have grown into giant sized versions of themselves. Fenrir and Pumba are both massive, but Fenrir is easily twice as big as Pumba, with tall legs, dark fur, and eyes as yellow as butternut squash. The tiny puppy voice I loved so much has deepened into a rumble that always makes me smile, and Pumba has sprouted two sharp tusks he's always sharpening against tree trunks. Both my boys are gentle souls, but Odin help you if you threaten me or one of the children on Hydra.

"Mom?" Fenrir plops his massive heavy head on my thigh and rolls his yellow eyes up to stare at me. Once a puppy, always a puppy. "Are you okay?"

I run a soothing hand over his ears. "I'm sorry I woke you, sweetheart. Go back to sleep. I just had another bad dream."

"I have bad dreams all the time," he tells me. "Just the other day, I had a nightmare you were being attacked by giant lizards, and I had to bite off their legs so they couldn't get to you. They were't very tasty."

I laugh and then check to make sure I haven't woken Pumba. But when I look over at his bed by the fireplace, he's snoring loudly, as per usual. "Really, Fenrir, I'm okay. Thank you for checking on me."

Staring at my To-Do list is stressing me out, as it should. I've wasted literal years of my life running around like a little girl, instead of trying to figure out a way to change the future.

Stop it. Remember what Harper said? It's unhealthy to be this frequently stressed out over the future. I needed to take a few years to heal my inner child, and there's nothing wrong with that.

Still, I look at my To-Do list and my stomach sinks.

1. Figure out what's happening to the survivors and reunite family members

2. Heal any life-threatening injuries

3. Apologize to Juliet for acting like a psycho (maybe give blood?)

4. Visit Erik and see if he's healing okay

5. Check on Peter and Darcy and make sure Peter's ankle gets fixed

6. Order a scout team to scope out any potential wandering survivors

7. Talk to Richard—he may know something helpful

8. Talk to Jacob—he's the oldest thing on this island, so he definitely knows something

9. Try the mainland's famous cheese

10. Visit Dolores in prison

I stare at number ten before crossing it out twice with a pencil. Visiting Dolores in prison is what made me hide this original journal in the first place. No apology could ever make that poor woman unsee what she has seen. Dolores has every reason to want to kill me, and there's no way to win. I can't free her, or I'll have to worry about her killing me or the people closest to me, but I feel intense shame keeping her locked up when this whole thing is my fault in the first place.

Over the past few years, I've tried everything I can think of to learn about the past. I've taken a tour of the artwork in the Temple and noted the stories of my death from both men and women. Gail has firmly denied my request to see her memories, but she claims that's because she doesn't want to relive our past life together and be reminded that she's grown old while I have not. I've even interviewed Charlotte's mom, as she's one of the only surviving members of the Dharma Initiative. Nothing has been particularly helpful, since no one but Ben actually saw what happened the night I died.

As for Richard and Jacob? Those assholes have been on some kind of globe trotting adventure the past few years, with no way to access them. From our few interactions, Jacob acts happy I'm back, but Richard doesn't seem to like me very much.

There are two immortals on this island who were alive when I died. If they don't want to talk to me, then it's time I take this into my own hands.

I write:

11. Break into Richard's house and find out what he's hiding

"We need to talk." I quickly push past Ben as soon as he opens his front door. Item by item, I show him each and every suspicious thing I found in Richard's vacant Barracks home, including an old Polaroid of Jacob, Richard, and myself—both of them smiling cheerfully while I angrily give the camera the middle finger. "Look at this," I point out, hastily flipping through a binder full of newspaper clippings. "Why does he have clippings from small local newspapers about murder victims? Look at this shit. There's so many. All Italian. All from Sicily."

A tiny part of me was hoping Ben would scoff and tell me he trusts Richard and there is a perfectly good explanation for all this, but he only squints as he studies the items to gather more intel.

"That's not even the half of it," I say and hold out an old tattered book. "Look at this."

Ben takes the seiðr manual and flips through pages so worn they practically disintegrate under his gentle touch. After skimming a few pages, he glances at me with confused eyes. "What exactly am I looking at?"

"Highly confidential and incredibly illegal instructions on how to use magic to travel through space and time." I watch his face to make sure I don't miss any half-second reaction before he covers up how he really feels. "Hazel scavenged one in the archives a few years ago, and when Gail found out? I thought Hazel was going to piss herself. Don't ask why it's illegal because Gail refuses to talk about it. Which begs the question," I add, waving at the book. "What is Richard doing with one?"

Ben's been silent this whole time, so it's calming to hear him speak at last. "Are you suggesting Richard is trying to practice magic?"

"I'm suggesting he's suspicious as hell."

"No arguments there." Ben nods slowly, solemnly. "I'd offer to interrogate, but I have no way of tracking him down."

"I've only spoken to him maybe two times in all the years I've been here, and he didn't seem to like me very much." Maybe he's avoiding me for a big reason? "You don't think Richard's the one who killed me, do you?"

Ben's eyes widen in surprise at the accusation—as if such a thought was inconceivable—but he never actually denies anything. "Honestly? I would have said no before you showed me all this, but now I'm not sure what I think. Richard has always been a solid supporter of your people. However, I would be exaggerating if I claimed to know much about him personally."

I have so many theories. So many thoughts. I'm not even sure how to formulate what I want to say or do or feel because it's just all too much. "It's like everything is staring me directly in the face and I'm still not able to see it." I grab the Polaroid and study it closely. Now that the adrenaline rush of breaking into his house has mostly worn off, I'm noticing more details I'd originally overlooked. "I look like shit."

"I beg your pardon?"

"In this photo," I clarify and hand it back to Ben. "I'm exhausted. Look at my eyes."

"They look stunning as usual," he comments, smiling. "I wonder when it was taken."

Sometime between 1974 and 1977. My eyes flit over one item to the next until they land on the manual. "You know what? I don't care what Gail says. I want to know what's in this. Can you help me translate it?"

"Here." Ben hands the photo back and helps me clear the table of my findings. "We can't plan our next move on an empty stomach. I'll start dinner. You," he clarifies with one of his signature low chuckles, "can be the lucky volunteer who gets to julienne all the carrots."

I'm walking down a hallway at the Temple when a chill runs up my spine. Someone is following me. Spinning around in the darkness, I can't make out any humanoid shapes. I shout, "Whoever you are, I know you're there. Come out."

I'm expecting a Falcon, or some other pervert, but the figure who steps out of the shadows is Kyle. "Sorry," he apologizes, "I guess I'm not quite as silent as I was when I was younger."

Everything life has taught me should manifest itself in a deep-seeded fear of him, but for some reason, my anxiety lessens when I realize the man is a Bear. "Why are you following me?"

Out of all the things Kyle could do, stopping a few feet away from me and taking a seat on the floor—so we're closer to eye level—is not what I'm expecting. "We're on a rotation while you're here," he explains. "After. . . you know. The party incident? Especially now that Thor the Third is missing. Until his body shows up to confirm he's dead, we're not taking chances with your safety."

"Oh. Right." Well, this is embarrassing. I guess the entire team knows I can't defend myself. "I'm assuming this was Ben's idea."

"Ahh," Kyle starts to answer, but the words he was about to form turn into nothing more than a nervous chuckle. "Well, Ben doesn't know we're doing this."

I raise an eyebrow. "Oh?"

"We've only just convinced him to stop stalking you and actually sleep at night. Didn't seem very productive to tell him we're keeping an eye on you. He's not fond of hypocrites."

"Which you clearly are," I quip.

Kyle smiles. "Fair. I'm not sure how much it helps, but we only watch when you're traveling the Temple. We don't go in your room. We don't eavesdrop on your conversations. We simply keep on eye out for anyone who would do you harm. No one has verbally expressed any ill will, but that might just mean they're smart enough to keep their mouths shut."

I guess this is no different from nobility having secret service? "Sorry for putting you all through this."

"It's no trouble at all, my lady. We're more than happy to protect our family's favorite Goddess."

Without needing me to ask, he's taken a seat to make me feel more comfortable so he's not towering over me. Trust is such an unfamiliar concept, and I'm not sure how I feel about how desperately I want to trust Kyle. Ben trusts him, so does that mean I can trust him? "Yeah, but it's a little embarrassing," I confide, and then I can't seem to stop confiding. "I can muster the power to defend others, but when I'm in danger? I freeze in fear. It's like my mind goes blank and I just accept that bad things will always happen to me."

"I can't help you with magic," Kyle says, "but the team could show you the proper way to throw a punch."

"Could you?" That would actually be super helpful! If I know the basics of self defense, I won't have to rely on magic. And if I don't have to rely on magic, it may make using magic easier under extreme stress because it won't be my one and only option to level the playing field. A genuine smile stretches from ear to ear. "You're so kind, Kyle. I can see why Ben likes you. Not that I'm upset you two didn't work out. I mean, I'm territorial, so that wouldn't have worked out well for everyone involved."

This seems to catch Kyle off guard, and his smile slowly falters. "He told you?

Uhh, oops? "Yeah, but, like, I've never mentioned it to anyone." At this news, Kyle's expression noticeably relaxes, so I ask, "Can I ask why it would be a big deal if people found out?"

"It's just. . . easier," Kyle explains in a whisper. "We already have enough of a target on our backs simply be being on Team Bear. The last thing we want is for a bad man who is angry with us to target our wives and children."

He's whispering, so I follow suit. "Why would they go after your family?"

"We are men who chose to marry women. After everything, we made a choice, and not one the Falcon's respect."

"I shutter to think what that team respects."

Kyle nods in agreement. "Falcons have a complicated structure for their unwarranted hatred. They believe men who like men are an abomination, women who like women just haven't been with the right man yet, and men who like both women and men should be killed for having the luxury of choice."

"What about women who like both men and women?"

I must look sufficiently insulted because Kyle looks surprised for a split second before he smiles. "They believe women like you should be jailed, where you'll have the opportunity to realize men are always the correct answer."

"Ew, that's so gross." I'd hoped for a more mature answer, but when Kyle doesn't laugh at me, I realize I don't have to police my speech anymore. At least not around Bears. They're like my own personal goon squad. "I swear I won't tell a soul. As far as I'm concerned, it's none of my business."

I hold out my pinkie to shake on it, but instead of laughing, a confused looking Kyle says, "I'm unfamiliar with this custom, and I am unsure how to proceed."

Laughing. Cheering. Song. Jeers. More laughter. Clanking of cups. Scraping of utensils. More laughter.

My eyes flick from one side of the dining hall to the other as I watch over the crowd. I'm trying to figure out the perfect place to make my announcement to achieve maximum effect. There's very few things I hate more than being the center of attention, but this needs to be said in order to keep everyone safe from ideologies that are going to end in violence against anyone who isn't a Falcon.

When the time is right, I jump up onto the table—trying my best to ignore how the immediate lull in conversation makes me nervous—and I acquaint these men with the Goddess of Death.

Smiling sweetly, my voice projects louder than usual, my eyes wide and alert as I scan the crowd for the weakest man to target. "Hello everyone! I'm sure you've all been wondering when Thor will return from wherever it is he's run off to. Well, the truth is. . . he's not coming back. Ever. Because I killed him." If the fear in the nearest Falcon's eyes are anything to go off of, my announcement has had the desired effect. "I had a vision Thor was going to murder my husband, so I made sure to remove him from the equation." I take a few more steps down the table, surging with confidence when none of these men can keep eye contact. "Any threat against my husband is a threat against me and will be dealt with accordingly. Do you understand?" I've stopped in front of a random man. This one is always laughing at me. He doesn't know my community has been teaching me Old Norse. He doesn't know I can understand him now. "I'm sorry," I say, leaning forward a little until it is my smaller body towering over his, "I didn't hear you. I asked if you understand. Do you understand?"

I'm speaking directly to one man, but the entire room answers me out of paranoia.

"Oh good," I tell this man specifically. "Because if anyone harms so much as a hair on my husband's head, I'm going to kill you."

"What? But my lady," the man pleads with so much desperation, I have to fight the urge to laugh. "I. . . that's not. . ."

He's not actually in danger of me killing him, but he doesn't know that.

"I swear," he continues. "I swear I would never do such a thing!"

"Oh, wonderful!" Dropping my smile into a dramatic frown, I deadpan, "Because if anyone harms my husband—anyone punches him, or steps on his foot, or bumps him too hard in the hallway and leaves the tiniest of bruises—I'm still killing you specifically."

At the Temple, I'm used to feeling lust. On Hydra, I'm used to feeling love. What sounds like concern ripples through this crowd, until I can feel their fear in an addicting headrush. Good. Bad men should be afraid of me if that's the only way to keep them in line.

"Also," I continue cheerfully, walking away from one sweaty man and onto the next, "I find it alarming that so many of you don't know how to take care of yourselves. Did you honestly think growing up into filthy little perverted monsters would mean women would flock to you?"

"They have no choice," a man yells, but his friends don't burst into laughter. Nobody laughs because now I'm the biggest threat in the room, and they're too afraid their laughter will offend me. "They need us to make babies," he adds in afterthought, but now I can hear the uncertainty in his voice.

I shake my head like the most disappointed mom of all time. "See? Now that's where you're wrong because nobody needs you." I point at him, and the men siting on either side lean away like cowards—like they were't best buddies only five seconds ago. "I mean specifically you. Women want to marry their best friend, not some big sweaty brute who doesn't bother talking to her unless it's to ask for sex. That tends to be the reason Bears, Boars, and Wolves are always the first choice for marriage. They actually like women."

"Yeah?" Curling his lip, the man I'm pointing at says, "Well, I think you've been nothing but trouble since you got here. Life was a lot easier before you started putting your nose where it doesn't belong. I've heard all about your plans to teach our boys how to clean a house, and cook, and rear children. No son of mine is going to learn about women's work. Right, boys?" The bearded man swings around, only to find his friends shying away in shame and embarrassment.

When it's just the Falcons, it's easier to hype each other up with their bullshit ideology. But now? Confronted by an actual threat he can't intimidate with the size of his body or the size of his voice? Suddenly, they're nothing more than pathetic little cowards.

"So." The man sighs heavily with disappointment. "It's like that, is it, boys?"

I would give anything to hear what he's thinking right now, but then again, I'd probably need therapy afterwards. Using a little magic, I float across the room and land on the table he's seated at. "Have you ever wondered why you seek male validation so strongly? It's a little odd, considering you claim to only be attracted to women." A snorting sound echoes through the room as nearby Falcons realize what my taunting is insinuating. "Do you not find it odd that when you have a question about men you go to your father, and when you have a question about women you also go to your father? Why wouldn't you go to your mother?" I swell with even more courage when the man sitting next to him pauses, looking like he's deep in thought about what I've said.

Despite the laughter at his expense, the man's body recoils at the thought. "Why would I ever go to my mother for advice?"

I feel a little piece of my heart wilt at the question. This man genuinely believes women are inferior and impose no real threat. But he has no idea what I'm capable of. He has no idea because as far as he's concerned, I haven't been trained in the most efficient way to stab someone. As far as he's concerned, I haven't built core muscles with a challenging weightlifting regiment. As far as he's concerned, I'm only what he can see.

Maybe it's naive to feel pity for him. Where did your life go so wrong that you decided to dehumanize an entire group of people? I soften my voice and give him one final chance. "Did you not have a mother to talk to when you were young?"

"No, I did."

Huh. Explaining empathy is difficult when it's such a foundational part of being human. Why am I having to explain empathy to this man? "Women understand themselves much more than men do. Therefore, it makes more sense to ask your mother questions about women. . . considering she is one. Okay," I add when it's clear he's not quite understanding me, "let's say you wanted to court a woman. What would you do?"

"Why?" He scoffs, looks back at his friends, remembers all over again that they've abandoned him, and shakes his head. "You looking for pointers?"

Nobody laughs.

Anger simmers under my skin in the form of humming magic. You stupid man. "I was giving you the opportunity to stop drawing embarrassment to yourself."

"Well," he sneers, "I guess we can't always get what we want, can we?"

"I guess not," I mock as annoyingly as I can. "Just like how your wife wanted one single orgasm in all the years you were married. But you're right," I add with a smile, "I guess we can't always get what we want."

"That's not what. . . that's—"

One of the Falcons snorts a loud laugh and immediately tries to cover it up, but the dam is already broken and soon most of the men in this room are laughing. For a split second, I shrink at the sound of men—once again—laughing at me. Then, I sense Ben as he climbs atop the table. Suddenly, his arm is looped through mine like a pair of Victorian lovers.

Keep going. You're doing great.

No, I'm ruining this. Everyone's always laughing at me.

Cora, they're laughing at him, not you.

Oh, really?

Ben's usually soft voice echoes throughout the room. "That's not even the most embarrassing part of this story, if you can believe it." His eyes twinkle at the prospect of making fun of one of his enemies. "He's been telling his friends he divorced her. Not to mention he completely left out the part about how she's now dating her best friend, Helga." The already scandalized crowd makes the most hilarious noises of disapproval, but none of them are brave enough to challenge me by actually voicing their disgust.

Having Ben here to hype me up is exactly what I need to feel confidant enough to stop overanalyzing and say exactly what I'm thinking at the exact second I think it. "Oh my god," I choke out between laughter. "You lied about your divorce? That's, like, so embarrassing." I point at one of the random men sitting at the nearest table and ask, "That's totally embarrassing, right?"

The nervous man smiles and answers, "Right you are, my lady."

Does he believe that, or is he just afraid of me? Does it matter? I guess for now it's only important that he's publicly sided with me. "See?" I yell at the crowd. "This guy gets it! I'm sorry, what was your name again?"

I'm surprised when the man's face blushes at the attention. "Ivar, my lady."

"See everyone? Ivar gets it! Why can't the rest of you? Tell you what. . . are you married, Ivar?"

Ivar seems so stunned at the question, the man next to him slams his elbow into his chest to snap him out of it. Coughing, Ivar says, "No, my lady."

"Would you like to be?"

Cora, what's the plan here, exactly?

Just trust me.

"Tell you what." If I have to wait for Ivar's response, I'd be waiting here a lifetime. Poor guy's brain looks like it's short-circuited. "How about you attend my homemaking classes? I'll show you how to become a man worth marrying. But," I add at the ecstasy in his eyes, "I'm only offering you the chance to talk to women. I'm not offering you a chance to marry them or touch them or follow them around. That decision is up to them. Do we have a deal?" I've barely held out my hand before the man leaps over the table and crashes in a heap at my feet.

Ivar detangles himself, stands before me, and rethinks his decision when he realizes how much taller he is—even when I'm on a table. Kneeling, he gently takes my much smaller hand in his and we shake.

As the sounds of excited and confused chatter fills the dinning hall again, Ben helps me down off the table. Talk to him. Talk to him unfiltered like Sawyer suggested. Before Ben has the chance to leave, I grab his hand tight and pull him through the crowd until we've left the hall completely.

When the sounds of the party are but a distant hum, I force myself to look up at him. "You're absolutely sure they were't laughing at me?" A current whips through the hallway and chills me. "I honestly couldn't tell."

"Of course they weren't laughing at you," Ben promises, and he's never sounded so excited. "You were magnificent! I'm so proud of you."

All thought is replaced with the sound of Ben's voice repeating in my mind. Nobody's ever been proud of me before. I want to kiss him—I want to stick my tongue down his throat more than I've ever wanted to do anything in my life—but I regret it as soon as our mouths separate.

Oh, no, I read this wrong. He wasn't kissing me back, which means I completely read this wrong. Before I have the chance to literally die of shame, I turn to run, but he grabs hold of my hand and refuses to let go. For a few seconds, Ben plays tug-of-war with my arm, until I say Ow! and he immediately releases me.

Ben sounds frightened when he says, "Sorry, I didn't mean to hurt you."

"I'm fine." There is a very real possibility I'm about to throw up. "I need to. . . to go back to Hydra."

"Right now?"

No. "Yes." Actually, no, I don't need to go back to Hydra, I just don't have the experience needed to navigate this part of a relationship. Because right now I really want to run away from this situation, but I'm forcing myself not to run away because then you'll be confused as to why I'm upset, and I don't want you to be upset because of me. It's just. . . I'm always misreading absolutely everything. Just a second ago I thought you looked disgusted but now you're acting like you don't want me to leave, and I'm really confused. "Actually, no, I don't need to go back to Hydra, I just don't have the experience needed to navigate this part of a relationship. Because right now I really want to run away, but I'm forcing myself not to run away because then you'll be confused as to why I'm upset, and I don't want you to be upset. It's just. . . I'm always misreading absolutely everything. Just a second ago I thought you looked disgusted but now you're acting like you don't want me to leave, and I'm really confused."

Wait, why did I just say exactly what I was thinking?

I brace myself for Ben's reaction, but he only smiles. "I wasn't disgusted. Far from it. You just surprised me is all."

The truth is, I've never felt anxiety quite like the Freyja Festival celebrating my 25th birthday. It took me hours—and the help of both Gail and Pris—to get my hair, makeup, and gown just right. Slathering myself in the floral lotions Ben's always commenting on, I sat on my throne and fanned my face in a futile attempt to keep from sweating while the party erupted in full swing. I kept waiting for Ben to pull some kind of obscene gesture like Jane did on Charlotte's wedding day. Every time someone new arrived at the Hall of Freyja, I'd sit up even straighter than I already was, but my excitement dulled after a few hours with no sight of him. My 25th birthday came and went, and Ben made no special mention of its significance either in person or through letters.

It's been almost two weeks since then, and I'd be lying if I said it wasn't a struggle to not feel hurt.

"Oh." I shift my weight from one foot to the other. "I thought. . . I don't know. I was expecting you to mention my 25th birthday by now."

Ben's eyes flit to the side before he bows his head in a slow nod of understanding. "And I was waiting for you to bring it up."

"That's not very romantic."

Ben chuckles. "Oh, and knock, knock, you're 25 now, let me in! sounds more romantic to you?"

I snort, mortified at the thought. "Well. . . actually, no. I guess I didn't think about it like that. So, what now?" I feel my stomach sour at the carefully restrained disgust that flashes for the briefest of seconds across his face. Has he been lying to me this whole time? Was this just one long con? Does he actually find me unattractive and is trying to find the easiest way to break the news? Have I changed so much over the years that he no longer loves me?

Ben's working overtime to keep his face blank. "To be completely honest, Cora. . . I'm not sure how to say this, so I'm just going to say it." I wait for the devastating blow, but instead he says, "I wasn't suspicious about your age when we first met because I thought that's just what immortals looked like. But now that I know you're not 30, I'm struggling with the fact that you look exactly the same as the day we met."

Wait, what? "Oh, thank you."

"No," he refutes, looking more than a little uncomfortable. "That's not a good thing. For me, at least. Considering we met when you were turning 21. Without any visual differences to go off of, I'm struggling with the fact that you still look very much like a 21 year old."

"Wait. . . are you saying I look too young?" I'm so confused. "I thought husbands wanted their wives to look young forever?"

Ben's nose scrunches in disgust at the idea. "Why would we want that? The whole point of marriage is to grow old together."

"Really? Oh. Right. Sorry." I finally realize what's going on and shake my head in shame. "I'm still clinging to my outdated beauty standards. When you've lived a certain way your entire life, it's very difficult to see another point of view." Tell him. Tell him. Tell him right now! "Can I be honest? I only look this way because I translated one of the lesser spells in the manual that hides wrinkles and other signs of aging."

"Why would. . . Why would you do that?" Ben sucks in a lungful of air and calms somewhat before continuing. "I'm not angry at you, I'm just angry at the thought that someone convinced you wrinkles are a bad thing."

It's never been apparent to me how deeply terrified of aging I was until the tears spill over. "They're not a bad thing?"

"No, of course not. They're just proof you're aging like a human." Ben's expressive eyes are the only thing I can trust to tell the truth. "I like the idea of you being human."

Relaxing the magic I use everyday to smooth my skin and brighten my eyes, I show him what I look like without it and immediately feel self conscious, even though I watch his pupils dilate at the sight of an older me. In reflex, I bring a hand up to worry at the small creases in the corner of my eyes. "I'm 25. I shouldn't have crows feet already."

"Crows feet," Ben exclaims, insulted. "You mean your laugh lines? I worked hard for those! Please don't take them away from me."

A laugh bubbles up my throat, and I attempt to cough it away. "I don't know why this is so difficult," I confess, and it takes all my concentration not to burst into tears. "I love you. I'm in physical pain when I'm not near you. And then when I'm near you again, all I can think about is how excited I am to share all the boring little details of my life." Finally mustering up the courage to look up at him, I find him locked in a surprised state of shock and awe. "I just. . . don't want this to change."

"Why would anything change? We finally got the order right. Friends first. It's the Bear code, after all." Ben's mouth twitches as he fights a smile. "Why don't we ease back into it? You'll need to be direct, though. I'm a little rusty with the nuances."

"Right. Can we just. . . start over? Again? I feel like we've started over a few times." I wait for him to stop laughing in what sounds like an exhale. "Would you like to go on a date with me? Tomorrow?"

Ben takes hold of my hand, brings it up to his mouth for a kiss, and I have my answer.

It's been over a week since I left the seiðr manual with Ben, and I've only just now received an invitation to discuss his translations. Despite our date being scheduled for an evening on the beach, his letter instructs me to come to the barracks at my earliest convenience, so I set sail immediately.

I've been saving a funny joke to open up with, but when I see her standing in Ben's kitchen, all that comes out is a very confused, "Gail, what are you doing here?"

Ben starts to answer, but Gail immediately orders him to be silent. I'm more than a little worried when he obeys without argument.

"I expect this kind of recklessness from him," Gail sneers in Ben's direction, turning sharply to glare at me. "I expected better of you."

Making sure to seem calm, I take a seat next to Ben at his kitchen table, but only so I can reach over, touch his foot with mine, and speak freely in his mind.

Please tell me Gail didn't find out.

She did. I'm afraid we're in big trouble.

"Cora?" Gail's voice is loud and displeased. "What exactly were you trying to accomplish with that manual?"

"I was just reading it," I say, trying not to sound as whiny as I feel. "Ben was helping me translate."

"Why didn't you bring it to me first?" Her question is teeming with jealousy. "What does Benjamin know about magic?"

"You know exactly why I didn't bring it to you," I snap back. "I've been asking for somebody to teach me magic beyond the basics, but no. Apparently, it's illegal thanks to you. I don't know what made you believe you can just make up laws."

Gail frowns. "Our laws are warnings that bad things will happen if you break them."

"Oh," I say with a sarcastic bite, "so what? What exactly is it you're so afraid of me doing?"

"Becoming powerful enough to kill every living person on either island," Gail answers. "You've already admitting to killing Thor. Without due process, I might add."

Stunned silent, I look between them three, four, five times before I'm convinced they're being serious. "Ben, you know I'm not going to randomly kill everyone, right?"

"That's what I keep trying to tell her," he says, "but she won't listen."

"I won't listen," Gail interrupts, "because Cora already did randomly kill everyone 30 years ago."

"She didn't randomly kill everyone," Ben argues, shying away when Gail stares him down. "Freyja gave the Initiative plenty of opportunities to change their ways, and they didn't listen. That's what you've never understood, Gail. All that happened was she—"

Ben stops moving. Not that he's ever particularly animated, but this is different. I notice his breathing change right away, but it takes a few seconds to realize his pupils don't look right. Then I feel it inside me. Panic. He's panicking.

"He's remembering," Gail exclaims with a smile on her lips and a gleam in her eye. "Cora, quick, read his mind."

"Ben?" I scoot my chair closer so I can get a better look at his mannerisms to assess just how dire the situation is. "Ben, can you hear me?"

"Hurry," Gail urges, "read his mind while he's remembering."

"I can't," I explain. "We don't do that without asking first. Ben?"

As if coming out of a dream, Ben blinks and darts his eyes over to me. "Yes?"

Is the flashback over? Is he okay? "Do you know where you are?"

Both brows pull down into a frown. "I'm fine Cora," he states flatly, but he doesn't sound fine. "I. . ." His throat bobs as he swallows. "I found the memory."

"Finally!" Gail claps her hands together in celebration. "So who was it? Who killed her?"

"I don't know," Ben whispers sharply. I can tell he's doing worse than usual because he's still as a statue. "I found the door, I just. . . didn't want to go in."

"Cora," Gail commands, "please just read his mind so we can figure out who killed you."

I'm annoyed at Gail's impatience as she walks closer to him. When Ben flinches slightly at the sight of her approaching, powerful magic turns my annoyance into the ability to teleport between them in the blink of an eye. Gail takes a frightened step back as I materialize in front of her. "Leave him alone," I snarl.

"No," Ben refutes, sounding sad. "Gail's right. We need to know who killed you so we can ensure they're properly punished."

"No, I'm not going to force you to open that door." Look at you. You're obviously not okay. How could I live with myself if I forced you to relive the worst day of your life? "We'll find them another way." I wish I could touch him and telepathically offer reassurances without Gail interfering, but I can tell from the way Ben's body is taught with trauma that offering physical comfort right now may make everything worse. "Hey. Ben? Look at me." I use my softest voice, waiting until he decides to look into the eyes of the Goddess of Love to confirm I'm telling the truth. "Nobody is going to make you do anything. Not even me. We'll find them another way, okay?"

It's only now that I notice he's shaking ever so slightly. "Thank you," he whispers.

"What have you done?" Gail asks in horror. "We had a chance to finally deliver justice to your murderer! What are you doing?"

Reading Ben's mind without permission is a boundary I am not willing to cross. And to be perfectly honest? I don't really care about Gail's opinion on the matter. "Where's the seiðr manual, Gail?"

"Gone," she answers in a single clipped word. "Destroyed, as it should have been years ago."

I want to ask her: Do you have any idea what you've done? That manual was the last surviving hope of me getting back home to my siblings, and now I'll never get to say goodbye. I'll never see them have families of their own. I'll never finish my master's degree, or move to the midwest to retire as a happy little spinster on a chicken farm. How am I supposed to stay in this universe, knowing I'm doomed to die a violent death that nobody seems to want to help me investigate? You've just killed me, Gail. You've just killed us all.

Instead, I snarl, "You know what I think?" Stillness hangs in the air, like the air itself is waiting to exhale. "I think you're angry I returned. You were the most powerful witch on either island, but now that I'm back you can't stand the sight of your competition." Look how upset she is. Her crocodile tears don't fool me. "I will never grow old like you. You hate me because I'm a reminder that all you'll ever be is a pathetic little mortal destined to die."

"Cora," Ben admonishes, sounding both angry and disappointed. "Why would you say that?"

"What?" Even though my rant was clearly directed at Gail, Ben acts like I've just hurt his feelings. "Why do you care?"

"Because you are being cruel," Ben explains, and his voice warbles like he's barely holding onto his composure. "And you are not cruel."

It's only now that I begin to rethink my original processing of the situation. Gail's crying, but I think Ben's right. I think her sadness is very much real, which means I'm being a horrible human being and didn't even realize it.

I don't want to be angry, but I don't know how to make myself calm. I wish someone would have taught me how to navigate all these feelings when I was a teenager. I wish anger wasn't the easiest emotion to conjure when I'm scared. Everything you could possibly feel all at once cycles through me: Shame. Embarrassment. Anger. Rage. Fear. Sadness. Because Ben is right. I'm being cruel.

After a few debilitating seconds pass, my emotions escalate from frightened to angry. "Fuck you," I scream at Gail, turning swiftly to point a finger at Ben, "and fuck you, too!"

Time and space swallow me whole. All the air in my lungs gets crushed out of me under the weight of indescribable magic. I'm crumpled, only to be uncrumpled and spat out in another area of the island altogether. Materializing three feet above the ground, there's a few seconds of free-fall before my body slams into the jungle floor.

Where am I? Oh no! Did I time travel? Great. That's just great! Now I'll never get to apologize to either of them! I RUIN EVERYTHING!

Letting out an enraged shriek that shakes the ground beneath my feet, I turn and punch straight through the thick trunk of the nearest tree. With a mighty whooshing of leaves, gravity brings it down heavily with a crash. In the long silence that follows, I stop feeling angry and start feeling sad that I may have accidentally hurt any birds that nested in that tree.

"I see you're having a moment." A voice comes from behind me, and I spin around to find a very nervous John packing up a bundle of firewood. Obviously eager to leave, he says, "I'll let you be."

"Wait." Pointing is rude, but I'm not myself right now, so I point at him. "What year is it?"

"2009," he answers. "It's Tuesday."

Interesting. I guess I didn't time travel, just physically traveled across the island. Can I do it again? I concentrate on the thought of Ben's house, but nothing happens. "John," I say randomly, "you're old. Aren't you afraid of dying?"

"I would greatly prefer not to die right this second," he says.

I sigh. "I'm not going to kill you."

It looks like Locke definitely does not believe me by the way he says, "Right."

Just like it did after my first meltdown in front of Harper, all of my rage immediately transitions into grief. "Why is everyone afraid of me?"

John nods at the path of destruction I caused. "Is punching the preferred method of chopping down trees in Asgard?"

The mental image of the Norse pantheon canonically punching through trees instead of using axes makes me laugh so hard I sit down and start crying. "I don't know what's wrong with me," I sob uncontrollably. John has every right to leave, but it looks like he's thought about it and decided to stay. "I can't control my magic. I can't control my temper. Everyone's afraid of me, but I don't want them to be afraid of me because I would never hurt anyone who didn't deserve it."

"You know," John cuts in, "if you were human, I'd make a comment about how that's a dictators mindset. But you're not human," he adds, and I realize he's trying to figure out how dangerous I am without pissing me off and putting himself in danger. "So I'm not going to make comparisons to anything."

"No, it's not like that." I take a deep, steading breath and turn to face him with what I hope is a relaxed smile. "The only person I've ever killed was my rapist father who kept eyeing my younger sisters in a way I didn't like. Are you saying killing him was a mistake?"

John's eyes widen in fear. "No, ma'am," he answers. "I see your point. Consider me convinced."

That was easy. I wish they could all be this reasonable. I soften until I'm a more calm Goddess of Death. "May I ask you something?" John nods, so I ask, "Why are you afraid of death?"

"Humans are born to die, but I've never felt closer to death than I do right now." John shrugs. "I guess I'm not very fond of the idea that I've wasted my life."

"Yeah, me too."

"I don't know if I feel comforted or disturbed," says John, and I can't help but laugh. "Sorry you're so upset. Did you want to talk about it?" Just like with Kyle, John takes a seat on the ground so I don't have to look up at him. It is this gesture of kindness that persuades me to be open and honest with him, even though he's not a Bear.

I'm afraid of who I become after Ben dies. I stopped Jin from dying, and Alex, and just the other day I had a vision of Aiko drowning, so I made sure to tell Liv and Miles so they can keep a close eye on her. But Ben? There's nothing I do that changes the nightmares, which means Ben is destined to die.

"After my rebirth," I confide, "I kept thinking my life would be so much better if I could just find a way to get back home, but I know now that's not true. I was miserable back home. After I killed my father, they sent me to court ordered therapy instead of juvie, since it was ruled self defense. Didn't do much, as you could probably tell." In hindsight, this may be a little too open and honest. "I've always hated death, ever since my grandmother passed away. Recently, I can't stop thinking about birthdays and aging and death. Not my own, just. . . people I care about. I've never had friends before, so I've only ever had to worry about my mother and siblings dying. But. . . I love my friends here, and I don't want them to die." I fall silent and worry I've weirded him out.

John remains silent a while. Then, he shakes his head and smiles. "You know…before I came to the island, I wasn't quite sure what deity I believed in, if any. It always felt like we were on our own. But a Goddess that cares about our silly little lives enough to weep at the thought of our death? It's a comforting thought."

"Cora?" From out of the trees, a disoriented Ben appears. His focus on me is momentarily diverted by the sight of Locke. "Cora, are you alright?"

"I'm fine." I teleported. He couldn't have tracked me because there wasn't a trail to track. "How did you find me?"

Ben pays Locke no mind and hurries over to assess me, like he doesn't believe I'm unharmed until he can see for himself. "I followed…you know."

"What?"

"I followed your…I'm not sure. Essence? We're soulmates," he adds with an air of superiority. "I always know where you are." Ben's smile drops in annoyance. "Can you not sense my presence?"

"I usually can," I try to explain. "I'm just really emotionally all over the place right now."

"I don't believe this." Ben doesn't seem to be listening to my explanation. "Is that why you can't effectively stalk me?"

I effectively stalk you! I watch you all the time without you knowing!

"Anyway, to clarify our earlier discussion," Ben adds, "Gail has never understood you like I do. She thinks you killed the Initiative because you're inherently dangerous, but I know you're not. I've looked into the eyes of War and Death, and I wasn't afraid. It would have been so easy to kill me, but you didn't. Even when you were a half mad Berserkr, you didn't hurt me. You didn't hurt any of the children. Only the adults who knew better than to disobey you." Ben continues evangelizing, and I pale at the realization that he most likely believes the narrative he's constructed because the truth is too painful. "Your fury is a great and glorious indignation. The Initiative was evil and deserved what was coming to them. Just ask Gail! Most of their animal experimentation was uselessly cruel. Why do you think she left?"

Ben could be right, but he also could be misremembering. Memory is such a fragile thing.

"Which leads me to a single request, if I may." Out of everything Ben could say—every complaint, every dismissal, every love song or poetic praise—I'm not prepared for him to cross his arms and say, "Can you please stop threatening to kill my friends?"

Despite my ability to keep my face measured, the fact that I feel it enflame in embarrassment is a dead giveaway. "What are you talking about?"

Ben narrows his eyes in annoyance. "Locke is. . . what? The seventh person you've threatened to kill in the span of a few months? For the last time, I'm not having an affair, and I have precious few friends, so please stop threatening to kill them."

"You ratted me out?" An embarrassed laugh coughs out of me at the sight of John's sheepish shrug and Ben's displeased expression. "Sorry, Ben. I just wanted to make it clear where everyone stands. That's all."

Ben looks and sounds genuinely confused. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

Liar. You all fawn over him because he's cooler than I am. John's like everyone's fun grandpa, and I'm just the mom who messes everything up and can't remember the rules to a simple sport. "The afterparty last week? After the Bears won? I watched John leave early, and then you left."

"Almost an hour after he did," Ben corrects, still sounding confused. "And it wasn't early. It was 2 in the morning."

Wait, really? It was an hour afterwards? I could have sworn. . . I guess it could have been an hour. I wasn't entirely focused on the timing of things, since I was so focused on watching Ben. You know, just to see if he acts differently when he thinks I'm not around.

Oh no. I can't tell him that! I sound psychotic!

"You're joking," Ben exclaims, his smile only growing wider the longer he thinks about it. "You're jealous?"

"Jealous?" I snort, offended. "Of what? The fact that you were laughing at his jokes? What, you think he's funnier than I am? I'm funny! I'm way funnier than he is!"

"You are jealous," Ben deduces with the most attractive laugh I've ever heard. "You think I would jeopardize my relationship with you for him? No offense," Ben adds quickly.

"None taken," says John.

In a perfect world, I'd shut up.

In this world, I reach out and touch his arm to show him the worst in me.

I FIGURED OUT HOW TO HARNESS THE MAGIC OF INVISIBILITY

I STALK YOU ALL THE TIME AND YOU HAVE NO IDEA I'M WATCHING

No, I knew.

BULLSHIT!

"I could smell your skin," he explains aloud, and the entire mood shifts. We're like two rattlesnakes in heat. Each of us flail our tails in warning, signaling death is near, only for neither of us to bite. "Although, to be completely transparent, I didn't realize it was you at first. I thought I was having a stroke. Then I realized the scent of you was stronger when I was standing near certain men, so I conducted a little experiment." Ben's expression has remained rather blank and unreadable, but now his lips have twitched ever so slightly into the smallest smile. "I see now that it worked."

Is he just pulling an excuse out of his ass? "What experiment?"

"So you didn't notice I was having a conversation with John while randomly walking from one corner of the room to the other?" All the mirth in his voice condenses into the low-toned sarcasm from when we first met. "At one point, I jumped on top of a table. Did you not find that odd?"

No. Of course I didn't notice because I was so focused on making sure you weren't gossiping about me or making out with someone else. My face enflames the longer I try and think of something to say, and my silence is answer all in itself.

"I can't believe it." Ben's voice is barely above a whisper, but it turns out his surprise isn't fear. "I did it. . . I win!"

A sinking feeling pools in my stomach and makes me queasy. "Win what?"

"I win everything," he answers cryptically.

No, no, no, no! This was all a game to him? I knew it. "Stop. Slow down. What do you win?"

Ben brings both hands up to his chest, thumping his fingers in emphasis. "A Goddess is obsessed with me." With each new word his voice rises in volume until he's yelling. "A Goddess is obsessed with me!"

He's flattered? Angry? What is going on here? "You're not mad I've been stalking you?"

"Why would that bother me? I've been following you around since the moment you returned to the island." Ben's eyes widen with a crazed elation, and I realize he's not so different from a Death God himself. "A Goddess deems me worthy enough to spy on! I'm better than everyone else!"

If he were any ordinary man, I'd find his display of maniacal ego repulsive. But a man who literally worships the ground I walk on? It makes his ego cute. Laughing, I raise a hand to my heart. "God, I love you."

Ben steps close enough to take my hand in his. "I love it when you call me God."

I'm overwhelmed by the same surge of endorphins that hit after a glass of Berserkr Tea overtakes my head and upper chest until I feel so happy I would do literally anything to keep him safe. Is this what love feels like?

"Happy for you two," says Locke, who I had completely forgotten was still here. When I turn, I find him inching his way backwards into the jungle until he's almost out of sight. "I'm heading back," he says, all too eager to get away from us. "Gotta drop off this firewood."

"Great," I mumble to Ben. "Another person who's afraid of me."

"Well," says Ben, "you did threaten to incinerate him."

I wince at the memory. "Yeah, sorry. And I'm sorry about earlier. You were right. I was being cruel. It's weird, now that I have so much free time to exist peacefully, I'm finding out a lot about myself. Like. . . I'm jealous and possessive and I may have a small temper."

"I know." Ben says like it's my best feature. "It's magnificent."

"My temper is magnificent?"

"When you first arrived," he explains, "you let people walk all over you. Now? People move out of your way without you having to ask. You no longer tolerate stupid questions. When people annoy you, you tell them to go away." Ben closes his eyes and smiles at the thought. "I love your burgeoning ego."

"What?" All the vertebrae in my spine crack as I stand up straight. "I have an ego? Ew. No. Having an ego is a bad thing."

"No!" Ben opens his eyes, leans forward, and yells so loudly and suddenly that I startle. "Please don't reverse all the progress you've made. Here, are you hungry? Your brain is always a little foggy when you're hungry. Let's go back home and I'll make you something."

"I'm not hungry. And you don't have to feed me, I can feed myself."

"Cora, I haven't tried feeding anything but your ego for months. You've made some good progress, but we could do so much better. Listen," he adds, but then he reaches out and touches my arm. You don't have to worry about your confession with me. I'm glad Thor's gone. To be honest, I'm flattered you killed him on my behalf. But Gail doesn't see it that way. She's beholden to some special moral code I just do not comprehend. I mean, the man clearly needed to be killed.

"Yeah," I say with my best attempt at an uneasy smile. "Totally. You're welcome."

"One last thing. I think you should apo—" Ben tries again to get the sentence out. "I think you should apolo—"

"Apologize to Gail," I finish for him. "Got it."

I hurry back to my room at the Temple to grab supplies before I sail back to Hydra in the hopes that Gail accepts my apology. All of the nervousness I was feeling morphs into rage at the damage Thor's caused in the short time I've trapped him in here.

"Oh, what the actual hell have you done," I scream. "Thor! Why? Why!?" I run over to my desk to take note of what's been destroyed, and I'm so upset I can't even get a full sentence out. "You shit all over my table? You. . . SHIT EVERYWHERE?"

A green bird the size of a common parakeet flaps towards me from out of the darkness and lands on my desk. Instead of screaming insults or threats, he grabs a pen in his beak and starts slamming it against the wood in a violent headbang. If this were just any little green bird, I'd find his tantrum cute. But the fact that this little green bird houses the soul of an incredibly violent and misogynistic human man makes this hilarious, not cute. I can't help myself from snorting a laugh at his extreme frustration.

At the sound of my laughter, Thor finally starts tweeting a beautiful sounding string of threats. "Turn me back into a human, or I'll burn this island to the ground!"

"OW! Okay, that's it." I reach into a desk drawer. "You want to bite me? You get the oven mitt of shame."

"Release me!" Thor's beak is small but mighty and really stings if he lands a bite, so I hold him gently but firmly in a pink oven mitt as he continues to squawk. "I swear. . . when I get my body back, you'll be sorry!"

After I dreamt Thor murders Ben, I originally confronted Thor with the intention of killing him. But much like when I accidentally teleported, my rage-fueled magic transformed him before I could even realize what was happening. I was hoping he would fall asleep a bird and wake up a normal human man, but apparently no such luck. "Yeah? How about I let you free in the jungle? You're a big strong man, I'm sure you can take care of yourself."

"Serves me right for praying to a female deity."

"Shut up," I scoff. "You've never prayed to me once in your entire life."

"You really lie with pride, don't you? You're nothing but a con artist, but your Goddess brainwashing will not work on me!"

"What are you talking about? Jeez, can't you guys try to have an original thought amongst you? Just one? I'm a Goddess whether you want to believe I am or not. Your opinion cannot outweigh the proof. I give life, and I can take it away."

"Yes, and if I would have known what that meant, I never would have started worshiping you in the first place." Something in the way he says it gives me pause from calling him a liar again. Eventually, Thor continues, "I prayed to the mighty Thor my entire life, like my father and his father before him. For the strength and courage to always do the right thing. But when I met Lavender, everything changed. Life only became worth living when she was happy, and you were her favorite Goddess. I remember the day she asked me to convert to Freyja worship. To have a woman share the most intimate parts of her life? Valhalla on Earth."

"Thor, I didn't kill your wife. Life did. You're mad at the wrong person."

"What? Oh, I'm sorry. Am I only allowed to be angry with the Goddess of Death?"

"No," I answer gently. "You should be angry with yourself. Instead of properly grieving her loss, you took out your anger on everyone around you, including your newborn son."

"Thor is strong because of me!"

"Thor is strong in spite of you." This is useless. He's not listening to me, and now my desk is covered in bird shit. Despite the voice in the back of my head begging me to cage him in here forever, I keep a firm grip on Thor as I walk him to the door and toss him out into the night. "You're on your own now, buddy."

THAT'S NOT WHAT I'M SAYING

YOU JUST SAID YOU THINK OF MEN AS ANTS

YEAH, BUT NOT YOU SPECIFICALLY

YOU'RE NOT AN ANT AT ALL!

YOU'RE. . . MY REALLY HELPFUL CAT

At this news, Ben's expression freezes as he thinks on it. Whatever residual tension was coiled in his brow relaxes completely, and he smiles and breaks the connection. Outside his mind, he leans back in his chair and says, "I suppose every good witch needs a loyal cat."

"Exactly," I agree with a smile. Ben is seated at his desk, and I'm seated on top of his desk because I like not having to look up at him. "Cat's are independent beings," I add.

"Independent beings quick to temper."

"Yeah? Well, then that fits the bill."

"I'm not quick to temper," he refutes with a laugh. "You're getting us confused."

Ever since we confessed to being equally obsessed with each other, we started freely sharing all of our deepest secrets because I trust him not to laugh at me and vice versa. In the time we've been just friends, I've had the luxury of figuring out who I am. I'm loud and bubbly and just a little mean, but only if someone is mean to me first.

Ben and I joke all the time, but his comment stings because my short temper is a major insecurity. "You know, sometimes you're a raging asshole."

"I know," Ben says, and I can't tell if he sounds proud or annoyed. "But never to you." His assured smile wavers as I lose the ability to keep eye contact. "But never to you, right? Cora? Wait," he comments in a panic, "what did I do?"

"Nothing."

"It's obviously not nothing." Ben shifts in his seat to get a better look at my face. "You're upset. What did I do? I'm trying to think of something I could have said, but I'm drawing a blank. Cora, please believe that it is never my intention to hurt your feelings, so I need you to tell me what I did wrong."

It's nothing. I'm just being dramatic.

No, he's right. I am upset about this, and our deal was to share things when we're upset. As much as I would like to bury this forever, I decide to show him the memory of the time he tried to teach me how to play chess.

In the memory, Ben is seated at the kitchen table next to me. His voice in tinged with trademark sarcasm when he asks, "Can you please move a piece so I can checkmate you? I need to attend to the macaroons."

"But you haven't officially won yet because guess what?" I hold up the horse piece. "This. . . ?"

Ben waits patently for me to remember, but I just stare back at him. "Knight," he reminds me, unamused.

"Knight? This is literally a horse's head. Why isn't it called horse head? Pony boy? Something equestrian related?"

Ben looks like he's in physical pain. "Is this you conceding defeat?"

"Hell no! You didn't let me finish. I hereby magic my knight into an apocalyptic horse who proceeds to brutally devour your queen and the rest of her subjects. I win."

"This is quite possibly the worst game of chess ever played in the history of mankind."

"See?" I turn to him and point at the memory of the two of us. "You were being really rude."

Ben shakes his head like he's confused at my reaction. "I was obviously being hyperbolic. I was joking."

"I didn't think it was funny. The worst game of all time? Gee, thanks."

"And what would you have called it? The greatest game ever played?"

I push him out of my mind and hop off his desk, headed to the kitchen. "See?" I huff indignantly. "There you go again! Sorry I wasn't born a chess master! Nobody taught me the rules, so obviously I'm bad at it. You didn't have to be so annoyed with me."

"You were't even trying," he argues. "That was what was so annoying."

"I just. . ." Crossing my arms over my chest makes me feel a little better. "You explained the rules too fast and I panicked because I couldn't remember what pieces do what. And then I tried to make up for it by being funny, but by then you were annoyed and didn't laugh, and that made me rage quit the whole thing."

"Why didn't you just ask for me to go over the rules again?"

"Asking for you to repeat yourself over and over? How embarrassing is that?"

"That's not embarrassing. Most people just call it education." After what feel like a lifetime of silence, Ben stands up from his desk and walks towards me, stopping close enough to take my hands in his. "Moving forward, when I inevitably make a mistake, can you please tell me? I don't want to ever actually upset you."

Logic tells me I'm supposed to swallow the lump in my throat and smile politely, but logic never seems to find me when I'm this upset. "I'm not good at anything." Tears appear no matter how hard I fight them, one after the other. "You're so smart and talented, and I'm a talentless hack."

"You are not a talentless hack."

"Yes I am," I refute. "I'm a talentless hack who sucks at things like chess and contract negotiation. And it just makes me feel really stupid."

"You're not stupid. Nobody is born knowing how to win at chess. Nobody is born being good at anything, actually. Don't feel like a failure for not immediately understanding the rules." Ben squeezes my hands and runs his thumbs over my wrists. "And don't ever feel bad for wanting to ask questions. I'm more than happy to answer them as many times as you need me to."

We've gone on a few romantic dates so far, but whenever the night seems to be going according to plan, I remember my vision of his death and always end up making an excuse to turn in for the night, alone. Much like when we first met, I'm terrified of being around him, just for different reasons. I'm not ready to let him go just yet, and the longer I keep him alive, the more paranoid I become at the thought of his death.

I want him to kiss me. Instead, I say, "I made you something." At the look on his face, I explain, "For your birthday. I was going to give it to you at the Freyja Festival, but then you didn't show up, and I kept making excuses to hold off."

"Why would I have been at the festival?"

"It's so pathetic," I groan. "Even though you're banned from Hydra, I fantasized about you crashing the party. You know. . . being my 25th birthday and all."

"You expected me to somehow sneak past Gail to do so?" Ben lets out a long huff of a laugh. "I'm honestly flattered you find me capable, because I assure you I am not."

"Can I tell you a secret?"

"I don't know," he mocks like old times. "Can you?"

"Remember when you left me alone to finish the soup last week? I. . . uh. . . waited until you were gone and then I snooped through your sketchbook. The one you keep yanking out of my hands when I visit." Wait, this is not as funny as it was in my head. "I'm so sorry. I don't know why I did that. Total breach of privacy. Won't happen again."

Ben doesn't fly into a rage at the news, he simply asks, "What did you think?"

"Of the art? I'm flattered you draw me so often." I cringe. "Is that pathetic?"

"There's nothing pathetic about admiring art of yourself."

"You're a very sweet liar."

"Think of it as a daily offering. Honestly," Ben continues, "I draw you so frequently because you're my muse. The only reason I didn't want you to see my work is because I was worried you'd get the wrong idea. That was, of course, before you found out I've done much more obsessive things than simply draw you in my spare time. Although, in hindsight, I'm eternally thankful you found this sketchbook and not the one dedicated to your ankles."

I laugh. "It's so unfair that you're talented and I'm not."

"Well, that's simply untrue."

"Yes," I mock in a horrible attempt at an impression of him, "it is true." Dropping the impression, I huff loudly and pout. "I'm not good at anything. Do you know how many times I've tried making you a shirt? They all looked like a child's work. I literally held a funeral for them atop a flaming pyre."

Ben finally cracks a smile at this, which quickly evolves into a low chuckle.

"See," I complain. "You didn't correct me. I'm talentless."

"You're very talented at being harsh on yourself."

Thinking about the failed attempts at shirt making has reminded me about the gift I was about to give him. "Oh, yeah, so like I was saying, I have a gift for you. Unfortunately, for reasons I will not mention again, it is not the gift of a shirt, but I hope this will suffice."

This gift idea was a gamble, I always knew that. Still, I'm not prepared for the confusing expression on Ben's face when he unwraps the gold ring I made him. Is he disappointed? Happy? Confused? Insulted? I honestly can't tell.

"I'm sorry if you don't like it." Shame and embarrassment flare up at the thought of reading him all wrong. "I can try to make another shirt if you want."

Ben flinches away from me, finally revealing an insulted expression. "Over my dead body." By the immediate twitch of his nostrils, I can tell that he regrets it. "Sorry. Poor choice of words. What I mean to say is I love it. Every husband has a homemade shirt. No other man has one of these." I watch as he pops it onto his finger and holds it up to the light to admire it.

Only after I realize he's being sincere do I allow myself to relax fully.

"I also have a gift for you," he confesses.

"But you already gave me a birthday gift."

"Yes, but this one is special. It took a little longer to make than I thought it would, but better late than never, right?"

I'm expecting more jewelry, but it looks as if we've switched roles this time. Ben's sewn me a gown with so many layers of intricate blue fabric that it reminds me of something I'd have wanted to wear to prom. Every crease and seam and ruffle and layer has been shaped with the upmost care. It's the most beautiful dress I've ever seen. "You made this?"

"Alright fine," he admits with an annoyed roll of his eyes. "No. I didn't make it. All I did was design it."

"What do you mean all you did was design it? That's the most important part! Anyone can learn to sew, but designing is literally you sharing a part of your brain."

Ben's eyes soften and he gives a nod, more than pleased with my compliment.

"Well," I say, "don't just stand there. Help me put it on."

Ben works to lace up the back as he talks me through his design process. "I've noticed you don't stay at parties for more than half an hour, and you're tense the entire time because people keep touching you. Hence," he says and pats at the billowing sleeves, "this dress will allow you to attend parties without people getting close enough to touch you. Oh no. I've upset you, I'm sorry."

After a lifetime of being invisible, it's an almost painful joy to finally be seen. "This is the nicest thing anyone has ever given me. Thank you." I look down at where the corseted top ends at my waist and the skirt juts out in an exaggerated bell shape. "But don't you think I'll take up too much space?"

"Cora, that's the entire point. You should be taking up more space. Take up all the space, if you ask me." Ben finishes fastening the gown and walks around to face me. Without warning, he shouts, "Spiiiiiiiiiiin!"

I'm a completely different person in this dress. Laughing feels different. I spread my arms and spin in circles until the gown fans out around me and I realize this is what thin girls get to experience all the time.

"Come here." Ben's hand is warm in mine, and I try not to panic when I realize he's walking us to his room. But just as I start to strategize my seduction plan, he releases my hand and retrieves a full-length mirror from inside his closet. "Look at it for yourself."

I stop bouncing, and then I realize he's noticed my mood shift and I try to overcompensate by swinging my arms. "I already did." I realize that sounded way less excited than I wanted it too. "How long did it take you to make this," I ask with much more enthusiasm.

"Cora," Ben says softly, more of a question than a call. "Come over here at look in the mirror. I want to know what you think."

I'm clearly excited by his gift, why is that not enough for him? Why is he torturing me? I stall by holding my breath, and when I finally answer, my voice is nothing but a high pitched whisper. "No."

"Why not?" Calmness tinged with confusion laces his question. "You don't have to like it. You can tell me if you think it's ugly. I'll make you a new one."

"I don't think it's ugly."

"Then why don't you want to look at yourself in the mirror?"

"Because," I answer truthfully, "I'm really happy right now, and I'm not ready to lose that feeling just yet."

Ben's never had this expression before and I'm frustrated by my inability to figure out what he's thinking. Is he sad? Does he pity me? Before I can ask, he places one hand on each of my shoulders and guides me over to stand in front of the mirror.

"Five things," he announces. "I want you to tell me five things you love about yourself."

"This is so stupid."

Even though he's much older now, I can see the youthful spark of teenage Ben flash across his lips until they're pulled halfway up one side of his face. "Come on, Goddess of Love. Name five things you love about yourself. Fine, one thing," he amends with a concerned arch of his brow. "Name one thing you love about yourself."

"My eyes," I answer immediately because they are neither the brown eyes of my mother or the blue eyes of my father. They're all mine. Everyone always tells me I have beautiful eyes because they can't find a single other thing on my body to praise. "I love my eyes," I say with significantly less enthusiasm.

"Yes, good," Ben coaches. "That's a great start. You have beautiful eyes. Okay, name something else. Anything else."

I skim over my reflection in the mirror. My eyes? Perfection. My face? Too round. My mouth? Too small. My cheeks? Too full. My arms are too big and my stomach hangs too low and my legs are too short and dimpled with cellulite. There has to be something other than my eyes that I like about myself.

A cryptic expression passes over Ben's face again, and I flush with embarrassment that all the validation in the world doesn't seem to be helping. He can tell me I'm beautiful all day till the moment he dies and it won't do any good.

"You're remembering something specific." Ben raises his hands up to hover over my temples while he waits for my answer. "May I?"

I nod, and we're sucked into one of my many memories of trying to find secondhand clothes that fit somewhat decently. "Not the goddamn Cranberries," I mutter as the sound of Linger plays over the Goodwill loudspeaker.

Seeing the poorly kept thrift store brings me back to a specific time and place filled with horrible memories. In the corner of the room, past piles of discarded clothing, in the very last dressing room in a long line of empty rooms, I can hear my female rage screaming within complete silence.

A hand flinches up to my heart to try and massage away the pain. "This was so long ago, you'd think it wouldn't hurt so much. No, wait," I say, holding out a hand to stop Ben from approaching. This is something I have to do myself. "Thanks, but I've got this one." Sucking in a deep breath, I approach the locked dressing room and knock. "Hey, it's me. Open up."

From inside, I hear my child voice answer, "Go away."

Every memory of the before times strangles my lungs. Time has removed me enough from mainstream societal expectations that I had completely forgotten the misery that comes with being a big girl in a man's world. "Cora? Listen, I know you're disappointed you can't afford to shop at the same stores as your friends. And I'm sorry it feels so impossible to find clothes that fit. I get it. It really sucks to feel like you're not allowed to be like everyone else. But you don't even like the current fashion anyway. Like, the skirt your friends bought to wear on Monday? It's so ugly. You don't like any of this fucking shit."

Tween me unlatches the lock and flings the door open, looking scandalized. "You can't say that word!"

"Which one? Fuck or shit?"

Younger me plugs her ears. "Stop saying that!"

I look tired. I look way too tired for a middle schooler. "They're just words, Cora. They only hold power if you give them power. And stop changing the subject." Waving magic through the air, I conjure the offending clothing—an Abercrombie & Fitch micro-mini denim skirt whose biggest size couldn't even fit halfway up my thighs. "Tell me this skirt is cute."

"It is cute," tween me refutes stubbornly.

No it's not. Come on, Cora. "Look me in the eye and say that. Come on. Look me in the eye."

Tween me attempts to make eye contact, but Ben is right. I'm a terrible liar. "Fine," she relents. "It's horrible. I hate everything about it."

"There we go! See? You don't want this, and you definitely don't need it."

Still staring holes into the carpeted floor, tween me mumbles, "But everyone else is getting one."

Talking to my younger self is proving more difficult than I thought because she doesn't believe anything I say. When I try to explain that adult Cora is a celebrity who marries our dream man and lives on a private island, tween me snorts and rolls her eyes. She won't believe me when I try to explain we have friends who would literally die for us, and she laughs at the idea of us having access to the finest fashion.

As I continue to explain, I sink to my knees to make her more comfortable. We're always the short one in the group, so I never had the chance to look down on anyone before. "I know life sucks right now," I continue, "but we're not going to be sad forever. We're going to grow up and learn all these cool hobbies like embroidery. . . and actually, you're not going to be very good at that. But it'll still bring you joy because some of your favorite inside jokes will come from nights where your friends gathered to embroider together. Oh! And the best part is you're gonna make your own clothes—"

Tween me perks up at this. "We make our own clothes?"

"Well, not exactly. But you have access to clothes tailored specifically to our body. Look at this."

I can't help but smile as I transform into my favorite disco jumpsuit and younger me starts screaming uncontrollably with glee. Next I transform into my favorite housedress, then my wedding dress, and then I just cycle through my entire wardrobe as I walk up and down the aisles like a runway. Tween me screams and flails and bounces around until I change into the blue gown Ben just gifted me, and she quiets down and stops moving.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing," she says. "It's just. . . a little much, don't you think?"

I watch as all the light washes out of younger me, and then I grow angry. "No, I don't. I think it makes me feel like a princess. What's wrong with that?"

"It's just so. . . poofy."

"What's wrong with poofy?"

"It's not flattering. Nonna says anything that takes up too much space isn't flattering on us because we already take up enough space as it is."

I bristle with anger. "Nonna didn't say that."

"Yes she did."

"No she didn't! Nonna never would have said something so mean!"

And then tween Cora reminds me of the time and place in which my grandmother said exactly that.

"Oh my god," I yell, horrified. "Nonna really did say that. What the hell, Nonna? Hey, sweetheart," I soothe. "Listen to me. We loved Nonna very much, but she was imperfect just like every other human. Which means not everything she said was true."

"But it is true," she says. "Everyone's always laughing at us."

"Okay, but. . . that doesn't last forever. Kids are really mean, but when you grow up? Your husband is going to think you're really hot. So who cares what those kids think?"

"Really?"

"Yes, so stop slouching," I order. "There we go. Stand up straight! Pop those titties!"

Tween Cora points at me, but I can tell she's not actually insulted because she's grinning. "Stop swearing."

"Titties are a body part, not a swear word. And," I add in a whisper, "it's okay that you like them. Boobs are great."

Tween me giggles. "Yeah, they are, right?"

"Repeat after me." I clear my throat. "I'm a bad bitch."

"I'm a. . ."

"Come on," I encourage. "Say it! I'm a bad bitch!"

Tween me takes a look around, notices we're alone, and squeaks out, "I'm a bad bitch."

"Yeah you are. Say it again!"

I hype myself up until I've hyped myself a little too much. Tween Cora lets out a angry shriek and punches a hole in the wall. Then she punches through all the dressing room mirrors. Then she lifts up a cart of wedding dresses and tosses it across the store as if it weighed nothing, all the while screaming I'm a bad bitch!

Ben raises an eyebrow at me.

"Can you give us one second?" Before Ben can answer, I've already shoved tween Cora into a dressing room and shut the door behind us. "What is wrong with you," I hiss. "Get your shit together! Violence is only the answer when people's lives are in danger. No more punching random things, okay?"

"Sorry," she says.

I didn't have a mom. Not really. I guess I'll have to be my own mom. If the world is going to be unkind to me, the least I can do is be kind to myself. Making sure to wrap both arms around her, I hug my younger self. "We're gonna be okay. I promise."

I feel her hug me back and I smile, knowing she won't feel this awful all the time.

3 Months Later

Life is great. For us, at least. Unfortunately for everyone else, Ben and I are absolute menaces to society.

When I'm forced into conversation with someone I dislike, Ben will reach out to touch an arm or place a comforting hand on my shoulder so he can make jokes in our mind until I laugh, and it confuses everyone involved except us. I feel more comfortable telling people no without over-explaining my reasoning. With Team Bear's help, I know how to throw a punch without breaking all my fingers, and the good news is I've only had to punch one person so far before the rude comments stopped completely. Even the meanest Falcon has decided to keep their horrid thoughts in their head.

In social settings, I was always the one off to the side, watching the group and making sure everyone is safe. Which, in hindsight, meant I never got the opportunity to meaningfully practice casual conversation. But now that Ben's glued to my side at parties, I feel inherently less stressed because he's quick to jump in if I can't figure out what to say next.

It is precisely because he's always defending me that I make my first move. At first it's a slow escalation—flirting openly in front of other people and making out at parties—but kissing led to sneaking off and groping over our clothes, which led to groping under our clothes, which led to me getting pushed against one of the murals he painted in my bedroom. Ben crawled under my skirts and hoisted my legs over his shoulders, holding me up against the wall until I gave him what he wanted. All he ever wants is to let everyone know he's the reason I'm glowing all the time. All he ever wants is for me to scream his name.

I'm now well acquainted with every storage closet, secret hallway, and hidden passage at both the barracks and the Temple. Every time we're in close proximity, we can't control ourselves. Birthday parties. During any game that doesn't involve Team Bear. Three separate weddings on every day of the wedding. The trick is to not get caught, and as long as I'm always glowing, there's no way for anyone to tell where one orgasm ends and another begins.

Seduction is just one giant game, and our latest game is to see who can resist sex the longest.

On a bright and sunny afternoon, I hop up onto his desk, lean forward with my elbows resting against my knees and my face resting in my palms, and widen my eyes. "Tell me a secret."

Ben laughs at my theatrics, but I suspect he's less amused and more just trying to stall. Finally, he answers, "I wish you would visit the mainland more often."

"I'm literally by your side every day of the week except Saturdays and Sundays." I sit up straight. "You think I don't visit enough?"

Ben opens his mouth to answer, but he's thinking too hard, and now I'm worried he's not telling me something. "I just wish you could spend less time away," he clarifies. "I'm getting older. I'm. . ."

I'm on high alert now. "You're what? What's going on?"

"I'm afraid of dying alone," he admits, "without you near to guide me home." What looks like embarrassment melts away into genuine fear. "Please don't let Odin take me to Valhalla. I want to go to Folkvangr."

"Like I'd ever let that sorry sack of shit take you away." I expected Ben to laugh, but he only gives one of those smiles that doesn't crinkle his eyes. He's actually worried about this. How do I fix this? "You're afraid of your soul getting lost in the afterlife?"

"Is that a silly thing to fear?"

"No, it's just not something I've ever thought about before."

"It's honestly my biggest fear."

"Well, fear not," I tell him. "Because your soul is destined for Folkvangr, and that's final."

"Is it?"

"Yes, it is. No more, Ben." I meant to say no more bringing it up, Ben but I don't bother correcting myself. Although I might have if I'd known he was going to tease me.

"Hm," Ben hums.

"What?"

"No more, Ben." He peeks at me from over the book he's reading. "That's not a phrase I'm accustomed to you saying when we're alone."

I roll my eyes. "Stop."

"Another unfamiliar sentiment. You are full of surprises today."

"Is that your kink? Teasing me?"

"Possibly."

"Well, stop it. That's not going to work."

"What's not going to work?"

"What you're doing right now. You're trying to annoy me until I get mad so you can get what you want."

"I have no idea what you're talking about." Ben pretends to look confused. "Is this you confessing you find me annoying?"

"No! This is you trying to make me angry so you can sleep with Death again!"

"Cora," he says calmly and finally puts the book down to give me his full attention. "I don't know how to tell you this, but I'm not doing anything. This is just your normal temper."

"I don't have a temper! I fixed my temper!"

"Clearly," he deadpans.

Let me win for once! I'm tired of losing every single game! "I could manipulate you into doing whatever I wanted."

Ben chuckles lowly. "Oh, that's obvious. But the question remains, why would you ever need to when you could just ask nicely?"

I give up and take my normal seat on the couch, immediately noticing a pack of cards at the edge of Ben's desk. A small smile forms at the thought of Peregrine winning eighteen consecutive rounds of Texas hold em' against Sawyer without even knowing what half the rules are. "Want to play Go Fish?"

A small laugh coughs out of him. "Go Fish?"

"Ok," I amend, frowning. "Want to teach me how to play poker?"

Ben shuffles the deck, sets the table, and explains the rules. Now that I'm no longer afraid of asking questions, I get a feel for the game much faster than I would have a few months ago. It takes two rounds, but I finally win a hand.

"Let's up the stakes. If I win. . ." I beg my face to stay pale as my eyes trail over him. "I want your shirt."

"Which one?"

"The one you're wearing."

Both eyebrows slowly rise, but he keeps his attention on the cards as he continues to shuffle. "Are you sure you want to do that?"

"Overconfident much?"

"I only need to win one round," he replies with a straight face. "You're wearing a dress."

"Then I guess I need to try a little harder."

Even though I listen carefully to the rules and try my best to weigh the risks of discarding certain cards, Ben wins the next round in no time at all.

"You win." I stare at his left eyebrow to keep up my facade of eye-contact as I raise my hands up behind my shoulders and search for the corset laces.

"I don't want the dress," he tells me.

"No?" He's probably going to act cute and ask for a sock. "What do you want?"

Ben leans back against the couch cushions. "I'll take whatever you have on under the dress." He twitches an eyebrow up in question. "Assuming you're wearing anything."

Just when I start to make progress, Ben cuts my winning streak short. I throw my cards on the table when he wins the next round. "You're cheating!"

"Yes. You've got me." Ben gestures to his naked arms. "I've got illegal aces hidden in my invisible sleeves."

After winning the next two rounds, I have no real way of knowing if I'm having a crazy case of beginners luck, or if Ben is letting me win.

"Well played," he praises. "What would you like this round?"

"Nothing," I answer, tossing my cards on the table.

Never taking his intense stare off me, Ben slowly settles against the sofa in nothing but his boxers, stretching out his arms across the back of the cushions. "Nothing?"

Even more heat creeps into my face, leaving it completely flushed at the way he's looking at me. Despite my best efforts to keep my eyes literally anywhere else, they betray me. "It looks like I've won. You have nothing else to bet." I'm not losing this game. Not tonight.

Ben's eyes narrow slightly, a smug smile tugging at his lips. "Then I guess our game has come to a close. Congratulations, Cora. You've finally bested me."

"I have, haven't I?"

"If that thought brings you comfort," he chuckles, "then yes. You've won."

I frown at his flippant tone. "But I have won."

"And yet you're still here."

It is beyond aggravating that my hips twitch as lust courses through me. "So? I could leave if I wanted to."

Ben lays on the sarcasm when he asks, "Could you though?"

"Yes," I snarl, enraged. "Of course I could."

"Then leave."

"What?"

Ben lightly pats the top of his thighs and says, "If you don't want to sit naked in my lap, then go. I'm not going to stop you."

"Don't look so smug." I roll my eyes at his ridiculous suggestion. "Like you could stop yourself from leaving. You're still here."

"This is my house," he says, laughing lowly. "I'm not the one keeping you here."

"Shut up!" I bring both hands up to cover my ears. "Just stop talking! I can't think! I'm leaving! This is me leaving!"

"Doesn't look like you're leaving."

"I'm trying, damnit!" I stand and it takes all my energy to hide how much my legs are weak from desire. "Have a nice night, asshole!"

See? I'm not whipped. I have full control over my baser instincts. I can say no. I can be a tease and then walk away. Shit, I forgot my shoes. I'm halfway to my house and then suddenly I'm walking just as quickly back up his porch steps and through the front door.

Ben hasn't moved. "Forget something?" His smug smile only stretches farther across his face as I slam the door behind me and stride towards him, ignoring my shoes entirely.

"Shut up," I yell as his hands slide lovingly up the backs of my legs, pulling me down onto his lap. He tries to say something else, but I have no interest in listening to him gloat and quickly silence him, our lips crushing together so urgently it's hard to breathe. His fingers work to untie my dress, yanking it down over my shoulders, and I pull away with a smack. "For the record," I gasp angrily, "I could leave right now if I really wanted to."

He raises his eyebrows in mock surprise. "I believe you."

"This was entirely my idea."

"Entirely," he agrees, as if the contrary had never even crossed his mind.

Sunshine filters down through the dense jungle trees, reflecting golden light off my jewelry and warming my naked body. "Guess who has the best grade in my homemaking class."

"Hm?" Ben looks up from his canvas, paintbrush in one hand and a palette in the other. "Sorry, what did you say?"

As much as I love being a muse, it still always throws me off when I realize just how seriously Ben takes his art. This morning, when I suggested Ben paint me wearing nothing but all the jewelry he crafted over the years, a part of me thought he wouldn't actually spend the entire time painting my portrait. But, just like all the other times he's sketched or drawn or painted me, he's dedicated entirely to the craft, and nothing—not even my attempts to flirt—can truly distract him. I don't say anything, though. Watching him concentrate this intensely puts a smile on my face.

Off in the distance, I hear a bird calling out to their friend. Ben and I are the only humans in the surrounding area, but the birds overhead make me feel like I'm naked in public, and I'm not sure how I feel about the shiver of excitement at the idea. "I said guess who has the best grade in my homemaking class."

Ben finishes dabbing at the painting before offering, "Ivar?"

"Okay, that's technically cheating."

Ben laughs while still concentrating on the painting. "How is that cheating?"

"Because there's like 8 Ivars. And you're right, by the way. It was one of the Ivars. They're not perfect," I add. "But considering they didn't even know how to do their own laundry before I got here, I'd say they've made the most progress. I'm not saying his food is about to win any awards, but it's at least edible. He's actually pretty good at taking care of babies now." I'm never entirely sure what to do with myself while Ben's hard at work, so I lift my arms in what I think is a powerful pose. All of the delicate gold chains around my wrists tickle my exposed skin as I move from pose to pose until I get bored. "Speaking of babies, I know all babies are special, but Alex may have given birth to the cutest baby I've ever seen."

"Agreed." Ben smiles. "Although I'm not sure what possessed her to spoil a perfectly good baby by giving it my name."

"I tried to tell you. Alex loves you more than you could possibly understand." Unable to look at him directly, I stare at a patch of grass at his feet. "You were a natural with him."

Ben's eyebrows twitch in confusion for half a second. "I'd hardly call myself a natural. All I did was hold him."

Nevermind. Take it back. "Yeah, but, like. . . you were really good at it."

"Good at holding a baby?"

What is even happening right now? "I don't know? I guess it was just nice to see you with a baby."

"Why would it be nice to see me with a baby?"

"It was nice to see how good you are with babies," I huff. "That's all. Why are you being so weird?"

Ben pauses, thinking. Unable to figure me out, he shakes his head in defeat. "You're the one that brought it up. I'm just trying to figure out what you mean."

"Nothing." I try to wave away the idea, and my jewelry chimes at my movement. "I don't mean anything. Ignore me."

"Cora," he says, finally abandoning the painting to walk over to me. "Can you please tell me what's upsetting you?"

I think I actually do want children because I have the luxury of knowing our child is Christopher. Our child is one of the good ones, and if there's anything the world needs more of, it's good men. I'm not afraid of creating life anymore, but I am afraid of taking yours away. Just give me a few more years together. Just a few more years.

But I don't know if I have a few more years to stall. Tell him. Tell him now. Stop making excuses and tell him now. Who cares if it's an awkward conversation? Ben has a right to know Christopher is his son.

"Ben? I need to tell you something. I've been meaning to tell you for a while, but. . . I don't know. The timing just never felt right, and then it felt weird telling you at all because I had waited so long to bring it up and—"

"You want a baby, don't you?"

Yes. "What? No," I lie. "Of course not. I'm not ready for you to die."

"I know this isn't what you want to hear, but everything dies eventually."

"You're right," I snap, already blinking away tears. "That's not what I want to hear."

Something like fear flashes in his eyes for the briefest of seconds. "Are you pregnant?"

"No," I answer immediately, even though the truth is complicated. When I first felt comfortable talking to Juliet alone, I asked her to help figure out why I no longer had periods. It turns out my reproductive system doesn't undergo cycles of fertility because I am always fertile. I don't have periods. Everyday is an ovulation day, and I just happen to have an unlimited supply of eggs. It's why I'm so horny all the time and can't think straight. My body is literally always begging for me to have children. "But I can't stop thinking about it."

"Being pregnant?"

"Taking care of a baby all by myself," I add. "I don't know if I can do this on my own."

Of all things, Ben coughs a laugh. "What do you mean? You have two islands full of people to help you."

Yeah, but they won't be able to help me because they aren't coming with me to the 70's. I really will be all alone. "No, that's not. . . Okay, please just let me finish. I need to tell you that—" My confession is cut short by the sensation of being punched. Only, I haven't been punched, and the dull pain immediately blossoms into the sharp intensity of a thousand beestings. I look down at my chest to figure out what hurts so much and find the tip of a bloody arrow jutting out just above my right breast.

I'm not afraid, only confused, as three more arrows fly past me and sink into Ben in quick succession.