Page 59 of Creatures that Breathe

He doesn’t reply right away. Too busy macerating his bottom lip as he follows the gentle rake of my toothbrush, the pull of my lips over the handle. When a dribble of white foam spills, he looks away, clears his throat.

“I’ve tried,” he admits, voice scratchy and rough. “Many times, with many different people. But it’s … disheartening, constantly needing to explain who I am, that I haven’t stolen them against their will.” A muscle twitches in his jaw. “There’s no time to discuss toothbrush dominion when they’re throwing lamps at me, screaming that I drugged and abducted them.”

He rests his head against the wall behind me, hips following, long legs stretching in front of him. “I’ve known Lev for over a century, and he’s forgotten who I am more times than I can count. He tried to kill me yesterday when I was checking his fucking pulse. It’s my gift.” Gift again. Spat like poison. “Or so Kadmos claimed. As if I should be grateful.”

His eyes drift off into the distance between us, reliving the past. “Kadmos was just as Hope is. Good intentioned, a driving force, something to cherish and hold close in the darkest time of the night. But hope can also be the expectation of worse to come. It can seed the impending sense of doom. Without hope, we can live blissfully ignorant of the ultimate failure looming. My gift is imbued with hope. I cannot abandon it. Regardless of how it torments me.”

I spit and rinse, and he suddenly seems to remember this isn’t a confession. I get to talk back.

He swallows hard, flexes his hands. “So. Am I what you expected?”

Maudlin and snarky, and bossy and … kind. To me. Protective. No, he’s nothing like the creature I’d built up in my head. The violent King Killer who’d take and take.

I pretend to misunderstand, shifting my gaze around the bathroom. It’s larger than any in the residence, but that’s not what surprises me. It’s the absence. The nothingness, the mundane simplicity. “Honestly?” I wipe my mouth. “I pictured you as more of a tropical bathroom guy. Palm tree decals and a seahorse soap dispenser. Clownfish art. Highbrow elegance.”

His smile is tender sun on my skin. “Oh, it was.”

“Oh yeah?”

“I have a keen eye for design, a natural proclivity for knowing just how many coconuts should be artfully nestled in a basket. But once word got out, the entire guard copied. The seashell market crashed, conch shells were abused. Tiny drink umbrellas became a local currency. I had to start fresh.”

Cheeks stinging from smiling, I perch against the counter. “Ah yes. Happens to the best of us. Thus you made the classic switch from beach fanatic to goth enthusiast.”

“Never let anyone anticipate your next move.”

I can’t help but laugh. “My Yaya used to say that.”

“Wise woman.”

“I always thought so.” I fold the edge of my—his—shirt against my thigh as a pang of longing strikes. “She studied game theory and lived her life accordingly. She supported Kadmos until the very end. Very few of our kind fought, but she believed he’d improve everything. With his failure, he doomed us. She was … hurt over and over again”—Destroyed. She was destroyed—“and it wasn’t until recently that I realized she’d gone utterly insane because of it. Not quite the genius, after all.”

She fought for good. Why couldn’t she fight for me? Was I not worth it? It’s a selfish recurring thought.

Cross moves closer, blocking the flickering light above us, tall frame radiating sheer strength and raw energy. He bites into his lip. I ache to free it, to demand he stop wrecking it, to stop brutalizing it.

“Why should insanity strip away her genius?” he asks.

“What?”

“Only the strong go insane, the weak never last long enough.” He leans into my space, oranges and soap, strokes his thumb over my necklaces. Smiles conspiratorially. “Why do you think the Gods are so fucked up?”

I slap his hand away. “You shouldn’t talk like that. They’ll punish you.”

“Who? The one wrathful God I prayed to half my life? Or the incestuous brood who mistakes control for power?” He cradles my wrist between us, and glides impossibly gentle fingertips down my palm, over my fading bruises.

“I’m serious,” I catch his hand in mine. “Even if you don’t belong to them, they’ll invent a way to make you miserable. They’re tricky and petty. They’ll get you in ways you haven’t even considered.”

“Thumb tacks in my shoe?”

“Worse.”

He braces his hands against the counter on either side of me, thumbs invading the dangerous, knuckle-thigh contact zone. With me perched on my tailbone, him with shoulders dropped, feet planted a mile away, we’re chest to chest. His clean orange scent engulfs me. A knot of desire slides into my stomach.

“Give it to me,” he says.

I nearly choke, cheeks and chest instantly hot. I squeak out brittle, unsexy things. “Like worms in all of your apples, every piece of gum stuck to its wrapper, and weak rubber bands.”

“You are maniacal.”

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