Page 141 of Creatures that Breathe

I can’t tell if it’s a question.

He’s so cautious around me, so tentative, uncomfortable, more so than the others, that it makes me wonder what he’s done to me. If I’d even want to remember.

“Is it the missing tattoos?” I ask. “Is that why you look at me like that, like I’m wrong, or have I done something to you? Do you not like me? Do we not get along?”

He watches me, teeth perched on the swell of his lip, eyes heated. A muscle ticks in his jaw, his entire torso flexes under the scabs and wounds.

“Cross?”

“It’s your hair,” he finally relents, pinning his gaze to the floor. “It’s different. I like you very much, Leni, and you’ve done nothing wrong, it’s just different.” When his eyes tip back to mine, they’re glassy, his teeth are clenched. “I’ll get used to it,” he promises darkly. “Any other questions?”

“Are we in danger?”

“You are safe,” he assures me firmly, almost threateningly. “I’ll make sure of it. But we have to remain cautious. The Blackguard killed a prince today. We’ll be hunted for that offense, more than usual.”

The prince. “Draven.” I don’t need to dig deep to find memories of him. They live close to the surface. Draven tearing my hair from my skull, Draven slapping me, scaring me, screaming at me. I jut my chin up at Cross. “I’m glad he’s dead. I hope he died slowly.”

“I hope it was quick and painless,” Cross returns softly. “For no sympathy to him. You died to kill him though, and the thought of your slow death drives ice into my veins.”

A sharp jolt of pain shoots through my arm as memories flood back, the sensations of a cold blade hacking through my arm. I can almost taste the metallic tang of blood on my lips, feel the weight of strong hands supporting me as I’m kissed by split, crimson lips.

He kisses me with desperation and devotion.

Like I’m his life.

Like he needs only me to survive.

I love you, cracks from my mouth as the knife scrapes bone.

It’s an act of sacrifice. I stabbed myself while kissing him. Him. The male here in my room.

Why else would I do it but to remember him?

A sudden alarming thought occurs. “Are you my husband?”

He goes still, responds in a gentle, near melancholy tone, “I would like to be. Someday. But I am not. You are not mine.”

A sense of unease washes over me, alongside little flares of disappointment and … relief.

Forgetting the love of my life, I can’t imagine a worse fate. Even if that love were this male doused in blood, limping, striving to protect me.

Especially if.

He’s healing quickly, clear skin replacing the burns, and it’s simultaneously alarming and comforting to realize he’s handsome. Arresting. Intense. Powerful.

The black in his eyes seems to permanently rage, and he chews on his lips like they’ve done him wrong, but oddly enough, the low tone of his voice brings me comfort. As do the shadows forever curling around his fingers.

And he’s adapted to me already, knows precisely when his nearness will scare me, and lives at the boundary, as close as he can without pushing me, like we’ve been molded together by Prometheus himself, shaped to move as one.

Why can’t I remember more about him? Frustration bubbles through my blood and I berate myself for procrastinating until the last possible moment to commit his face and touch to memory.

“Then we should probably …” I wring my hands. “We should have separate rooms.”

“Yes,” he agrees. “Why don’t you shower, and I’ll stand guard.” He’s suddenly content to engage in something other than look at me, checking the peephole, throwing the lock, swiping at a thin black phone. “Atlas will come watch while I sew myself up. He’s feeling quite guilty.”

I tilt my head, quiet, absorbing every scrap of information. Atlas is the neat, bossy one with stunning tipped ears. “What did he do?”

“He took you away from me once,” Cross informs, fire back in his eyes. “He didn’t trust you. He went against my wishes.”

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