Page 49 of Creatures that Breathe

“That’s enough, Lev.” The cockpit door unlatches and Cross stalks out. He’s shirtless, same dirty jeans hanging off his hips. Has a thin needle balanced between his teeth, the end connected to a black thread poking through the open wound in his shoulder. He stops in the aisle next to us. “Tell me if I’ve got the edge, I can’t feel a damn thing.”

Lev’s up and hovering so quickly, his thigh snaps the table clean off. “It’s because—”

“Because I threw too much tonight. That’s it.”

“We both know it’s not.” Lev directs a menacing expression toward me. “Unbuckle her and open the door. Fixed in thirty seconds. Fuck the thread.”

I snort, the insult pouring from me, quick and sharp, so unlike me. “Of course you would think throwing me out of a plane would propagate magical healing. You couldn’t finish a puzzle if it had more than five pieces.”

Lev’s nostrils flare. “You—”

“Yes, me,” I snarl. “Are we back to this already?”

Cross catches the Russian’s arm, hauling him back from me. “Go assist with controls.”

They square off, two bulls in one stall, vibrating with aggression until finally, under his breath, Lev grunts, “This isn’t just about you. What will Atlas think? You’re putting them in danger too.”

Cross doesn’t shift his focus from me as he tells Lev, “You’re dismissed.”

The Russian huffs but gives me a silent, hateful glare, then stomps to the front of the plane and disappears. “He only threatens when he can’t argue.”

“Should he be near the pilot?” I ask. Someone should.

The spymaster shrugs. “We’re twenty thousand feet and cruising. That’s enough time to reverse any stupid choice he makes.”

My mouth drops open. “He wouldn’t.”

“He has. Don’t give a hothead immortality.” A sigh. “He’ll lighten up. He’s fussy because I ended his fight early. Has a thing about honor and hand to hand combat.”

Honor feels like a stretch.

Perching on the arm of Lev’s chair, Cross stays quiet as he stitches his shoulder. Before takeoff, he scrubbed clean with a washcloth in the tiny bathroom, attacking raw skin, and scouring harshly.

The result makes my mouth dry.

A wealth of exposed muscle so severely carved, specks of dirt remain untouched in the valleys of his abs and hide in the two angled lines pointing low on his torso where a trail of light brown hair vanishes beneath the edge of his pants. The place my gaze keeps returning to, though, is the three tipped flame on his heart, the same punishing black as his neck and wrist tattoos. Kadmos’s mark.

If the shadows nesting in the footwells and aisle weren’t already bathing me with warmth, I might have shivered. There are no enemies here, and despite my talk, we both know I couldn’t land a single finger on him without his allowing it, which means the only reason for him to still flex his power is to warm me.

My heart twists painfully.

“If you wanted someone to cheer for, you should’ve put him in the ring. There’d be a shrine.” He yanks on the needle, wrenching the bullet hole together before cutting the thread with his teeth and tying a knot.

I think if he could punish the rest of his body as easily as he bites his lips, he’d be red and raw everywhere.

“You’re not healing,” I point out.

He looks at me, chews his lip. Stands, rolls out his shoulder. “No, I’m not, and the only reason I’m admitting as much is because of the moratorium you’ve placed on ‘fine’.”

I don’t want to like him. I’m sore, tired, and wearing yesterday’s panties. I don’t even want to smile. I tilt my head at the window to hide it, feign casual. “Your friend wants me dead.”

“A fact you’re taking tremendously well.” From the overhead bins, Cross unfolds a long sleeve, waffle knit shirt. Black. Does he ever wear color? Has he ever risked being seen?

“If the plane goes down, I’m not the only one on it.”

“The Great Plan turns Machiavellian.” He’s teasing.

“Machiavelli hated the Greeks. Called them fickle.”

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