Page 70 of Creatures that Breathe

Although, apparently not for him. He’s tense, pacing in just his socks but pounding the floor, angry, but not at me, judging by the fresh split on his lip.

A sharp jab niggles my ribs. “I asked you because you’re a phantom. Because creatures are terrified of the ruthless spymaster, and because you’d be a challenge to find. A game for me to analyze and peel apart, and I wanted to win more than I’d like to admit. I wanted to feel capable and prove to everyone who caged me and sold me that they were wrong. I’m not weak or helpless. I’m not stupid.”

Cross’s temper ruptures, breaths coming fast, black curls spiraling between his fingers. “Who caged you?” he demands, “Who sold you?”

Oops.

I blanch, swallow back the tightness in my throat. “You want complete honesty? I thought you’d be heartless. Every bit the king killer I was told you are. I figured you’d be a monster.”

“Who. Leni.”

I ignore him. “The thing is, I’m not afraid of monsters. Sometimes you need a monster on your side to win.”

Cross seethes in my admission. Lets depthless silence cocoon us. But I can’t take it back. Not after seeing him gut Odren and step over the body to claim me. He’s every bit a monster. Powerful and violent, a friend to the darkness.

And I’d probably still desire him, if that were all he was.

But he’s also a hero.

A lasting golden thread of the Kingsguard pollutes his blood. Urges him to protect and safeguard. Leave bloodshed as a last resort. Give creatures a chance.

And it makes me want more with him. More time. More dirty alleyways and coffee shop stalking. More breakfasts watching the rain. My heart gives an uncontrollable thud, heat licks against the back of my eyes.

Cross stares at me for a considerable amount of time, waiting for me to go on, and I can tell all he wants to ask is who? over and over.

He doesn’t know it, but the hero in him would protect the who. Draven’s one of the good guys—air quotes—one of the king’s own. It’s not just Kadmos’s mark on Cross’s chest, it’s Draven’s too.

Finally, Cross asks, “Why not white?”

Cue sigh of relief.

I stand, needing to move, to scurry out of the way like I’ve just performed a hit and run on a school bus, and end up catching my reflection in the window.

Black shirt, soft, thinner than the pants, just as oversized. My necklaces are knotted and greening from soap scum, my hair’s dry and loose on my shoulders, pathetically straight. I’m pretty sure that’s mascara smudged to my ears.

Draven would have a field day.

I turn away quickly, afraid his words might sink nails into my mind, fear instantly fading under Cross’s undivided attention, the slash of his storm black gaze, white teeth sunk into his lip.

The realm could end and he’d go on feasting on the shape of me in his clothes. He wouldn’t blink.

My body goes hot. “White is a clean slate, an empty canvas waiting to be filled.”

Draven dressed me in white.

Once again, Cross’s long legs eat up the distance between us. He leans a hand flat against the glass behind me and twirls a strand of my hair with the other, breath ghosting my face. Hot mint with sugar. “And why blue?”

Duh. “It’s not white.”

Dark eyes dart to mine. This close, the luxurious green is visible, opening up to me like a secret forest to explore.

“Not white.” He’s cheating now, wringing answers from me with a brush of his thumb on my cheek.

My chest tightens. “Blue is freedom. It’s discovery. It’s the sea and the sky. It’s endless possibility.” I crane my neck back to look up at him and he’s locked onto me, fingers playing idly, hovering. Eyes flashing like shards of ice in a storm. Fracturing at the edges.

It’s insane, how the words linger between us, how my gaze drips from those eyes—those crushing eyes—to his mouth, to the corner he’s sank teeth into and how just seeing that hard, punishing bite reminds me of his arms locked around me on the dock, his hand around my nape against the wall, solid and insistent as he licked at me—

“That’s six,” I breathe. “You owe me six pieces of clothing.”

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