Page 140 of Creatures that Breathe

I set an icy stare on the both of them. “I don’t need any help.”

Cross halts immediately, as if he can sense my distress, holds up his hands in a peaceful gesture. His voice is smooth and deep, his eyes a mesmerizing ripple of black and silver. “Please, it would make me—us all feel better if I helped get you settled in the room.”

“Why? You’re all hurt.” I gesture at the warriors scattered around the lobby, mortals outwardly gaping at them, running and pointing, as if Hades himself has risen from the Underworld, then wave a hand down myself. “I’m the only one who’s fine.”

He winces. Shuts his eyes like he’s been slapped.

I don’t understand why.

I am fine.

There’s not a sliver of red on my skin. Not a bruise or blister.

Meanwhile, his pants are soaked in crimson and wounds criss cross the lines of his bare chest. Burns and blisters cover his hands and arms, the slants of his face.

A swell of intense concern pops in my chest. He needs medical care. He needs creams and ointments and poultices. He needs help. Not me.

“You’re the one who’s bleeding,” I point out.

Did they lose their battle? Did we?

I can’t imagine any of them failing. Powerful, capable, massive. And the way Cross looks at me, like he’d sooner cut out his own heart than let me suffer, has to mean he’d never allow himself to lose.

I reach into the recesses of my mind for answers and a whimper leaks from my lips, pain a tornado up my spine, roaring, scorching.

Cross catches me in his arms before I collapse. “Please, love. You’ve got to stop trying to remember. I’ll share everything with you, but first I need you to rest, yes?” His mouth curves into a faint, scornful smile.

I hesitate, torn between suspicion and sympathy.

Ultimately, his gentle gaze captures me against reason, and I’m powerless to resist, nodding, allowing myself to be carried into the elevator by the promise of rest and answers, and the secrets of this male.

He enters the hotel room first. Swift and precise, he inspects the small armoire, searches under the neatly made bed, checks lampshades, and double locks the windows.

Either he’s paranoid or we’re in trouble. I’m too exhausted to ask which, unsure if one will make me feel better, if my death eliminated a threat or invigorated it.

Regardless, I’m a killer now.

Those were bones melting in the ashes.

With his checks done, Cross extends a hand toward me. I stare at it for a moment before taking it, bracing for a dark memory to slash me.

None come, and I sigh in relief.

“I requested connecting rooms because I thought you might need some time alone,” he explains gently, voice curling around me. “But if you don’t …”

“I do,” I blurt, pulling my hand from his. As my declaration settles in the air, my stomach turns, as if it can sense a hint of dishonesty lingering beneath it.

Part of me does want to be alone with this male.

Posture guarded, Cross buries his hands deep in his pockets. “Do you remember anything else? Have any immediate questions?”

The silence is tense. “Well.” I clear my throat, and somewhat stiffly, settle on the edge of the bed, smooth my palm over the white duvet. “I remember my name. And you’re Cross.”

“You remember me?” He sounds hopeful, as if he’s been anticipating this moment.

He steps forward, but I’m already backtracking at the idea that this intense, capable male could have interest in me. Me. “You told me it, remember?”

“Right.” He halts like I’ve thrown up a fresh wall of flame. “But you don’t remember me from before.”

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