Page 52 of Creatures that Breathe

“Because,” he lifts his head to mine, chest rising and falling, waits, like he’s changed his mind, he doesn’t want to answer. Turns away. “You started look at me like you expected me to be worse. As if you were surprised the curse hadn’t defiled me yet.” He stares at the spread orange segments on his thigh, swipes them into his palm and dumps them on my armrest. “But you see, no curse changed me. I was a killer then, and I’m one now. The male you coerced, and propositioned and kissed”—his gaze sinks to my mouth—“He’s only ever been worthy of one title: Blackguard.”

He wants to scare me, make me squirm into a ball of regret and fear, but his confession makes me brave. We’re talking mistakes? Buckle up. “I started the fire at the Ballasts.”

It’s too easy to admit it. So I push harder, try to dredge up a sick, disgusted feeling. “Those creatures today died because of me. Because I thought I had the variables managed, because I thought I was being proactive and playing to advantages. If I hadn’t started it, there wouldn’t have been an explosion. We’d never have been so easily targeted. There would’ve been no shooting.”

His mouth hangs slightly open. “You’re an arsonist?”

He sounds so dejected, I rush to explain without considering why I care what this killer thinks of me. “I lit the curtains on fire. They felt synthetic, there was a chance they might never catch flame, but …”

His eyebrow arches. But?

No but. “They were calling for your heads,” I explain, dread spiraling into my marrow. “I thought it’d give us time to get away—I didn’t think …”

“That an illegal creature fight club would double as a black market? That the owner would keep C4 and ambrosia and enough atropine to stamp out the Lycaon line in the backrooms?” He leans back, popping fruit into his mouth, each bite suffusing the air with wafts of bright, fresh citrus. “It’s all gone now. You might have actually saved lives. You don’t owe them your guilt.”

His words, calm as they are, throw a punch in my stomach. “The Keres are heathens, but last night, those creatures—”

“The Keres are no more wicked than any of the creatures I’ve met. They just don’t attempt to hide it with false humanity.”

How has he turned my confession into a debate on who’s the baddest bad? “It’s clear you’ve lost your humanity.”

Cross’s eyes slit, hiding those supernova irises. “I didn’t lose it. I cut it out like a peeling scab. Kept ripping until it didn’t grow back, long before the king fell. The Kingsguard? They don’t exist. They never did.”

He wants me to flinch or cry, but I’ve never needed someone to tell me people aren’t all rainbows and daises. I set my teeth, seething. I confessed my worst secret and he brushed it aside. Not one moment to wallow. It’s …

Clever.

Sucking the wind from my bummer sails. Snuffing out my pyre of self-loathing. Infuriating, but smart. redirecting me toward anger. He’s a good opponent. Strategic and—

Sweet Hera, Queen of Gods, is it possible I like this male? I dump my face into my palms.

He sighs at me. “If you’d prefer, I have a couple apples and—”

“No apples.”

“Alright … Lev keeps protein bars and I guarantee Zeke has candy squirreled somewhere. Usually Twix.”

My stomach growls. I jerk up.

Cross doesn’t just smile, he preens. “You have a sweet tooth.”

Teeth. All traitors. “I’m not hungry.”

His gaze fixes on my lips, bruising and biting his own as he breathes in. Holds it. Exhales. “Put their blood on my hands, Leni. If you did it to protect me, then their deaths are mine.”

“Just like that? Pass the blame?”

Rising out of his seat, he tips forward, hands planting on the back of my chair, caging me between taut forearms. In a low, gravelly voice, he says, “The guilt will drive you mad if you don’t let it go. Give it to me, I will gladly bear it.”

He’s so close I can smell the saltwater in his hair, the fructose on his tongue. A pang of heat pools between my legs, my belly quivers.

Suddenly he pulls back, a crinkly gold wrapper caught between his middle and forefinger. He sets it on my knee.

“A necessary breach,” he repeats, reclining his seat, closing his eyes. “Women, children, elders. I’m already red with blame. Might as well give me yours. In return, all I ask is that you eat.”

12

Cross

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