Page 151 of Creatures that Breathe

Leni

The Delos 1 Ocean Dr, Miami Beach, FL 33139

He’s hiding again.

I can feel him. Goosebumps prickle my skin, the sensation of black starburst eyes raking over me has me wetting my mouth against the heat dripping down my spine.

He’s close.

Whenever he vanishes, a stab of annoyance pierces me. Abandonment, loneliness, fear. And yet, nothing compared to the thrill that courses through my veins when I find him. Delight, exhilaration. Heat.

Undiminishing heat.

I sweep through the dancefloor once, searching for any sign of his presence. Every obscured face and writhing shadow burning electric across my skin. I can almost feel his breath on the nape of my neck, his fingers stroking my palms.

We’re at the beach club, of all places. The latest stop of his extensive list of required experiences.

The finest restaurants, extravagant hotels, shops that sell gowns not dresses, and jewelers that never tell me the price-tag.

Technically, we’re wanted criminals, being hunted by the Queensguard. In actuality, thanks to Cross’s prowess, we’re on a perpetual vacation.

We’ve dangled our feet in rooftop pools, played hide and seek in an art museum. Strolled every park, fed every pigeon.

And each night, both of us lingering in the hall of our safehouse, hands on our respective bedroom doors, Cross asks me the never-ending question. “Did you like it?”

I like all of it with him. Boring, stab my eyes out museums, parks with gravel and mulch, and yachts that make my stomach turn.

I like when we stay inside too. I like popping out of the drizzle to grab a Tres Leches latte and a Pekoe tea. Extra hot. I like paying for the paper with rattling coins and playing Which God is Meddling Today? with the headlines.

I like that Cross keeps cards in his left coat pocket and stores my Roxy Purple lipstick in his right. I like how he holds my hair in his fist when he clasps my necklace, how he spins me slowly around to adjust the pendant on my sternum, how his eyes linger there, on the empty skin.

It’s one tattoo I haven’t redone.

Memories flood back now, easier than before, sharper and more vivid. The sear of breaking three fingers and Cross entering a fiery rage, hearing him spew threats. Getting thrown against a cold blustery dock, gunshots echoing. Jumping out of a building, him rumbling for me to relax.

These flashes of pure, jarring pain echo within me, steal my sense of time. They hurt and pinch and pry, but they’re manageable.

The flashes where pain is a shadow, a phantom of other sensations—those are mind numbing.

The stroke of big hands on my skin, the pressure of teeth on my hip, a breathtaking tightness that squeezes me low in my stomach.

These memories aren’t long enough for me to close my eyes to, but I know. I know that they’re all this male here, the one hiding from me.

The male I’ll find.

I let myself float a little, catching my reflection in the mirror above the sleek, modern bar. The ends of my hair puff angrily in the heat and humidity, creating little riots of neon blue. When I first emerged from the bathroom after dying all of Cross’s white towels blue, his expression had been indecipherable.

I’d thought he was mad about the shower walls, the tile, and countertop being stained. “Before you say anything,” I’d blurted, my fingertips and nails dyed navy, new and improved hair dripping blue splats on my shoulder. “I love it.”

Even if the box had promised aqua and delivered hypno mermaid.

He’d smiled, a warmth spreading across his face. “Of course you do.”

“I needed a change.”

“It’s perfect, Leni. It’s perfect for you.”

Atlas seemed to think it was, too.

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