Page 81 of Creatures that Breathe

Brows furrowed in thought, Cross presses a final kiss to my temple, murmurs for me to wait for him, and leaves, striding bare footed down the hall.

I count to five, six, seven before following him.

Crash into a giant with purple eyes and the best hair in the world—Sin, my mind pieces together, the panty melter. He flashes me a smile that could liquify bones, fumbling an electric guitar and three pairs of sunglasses, as he shouts, “Who the fuck moved my leather pants?”

The blonde from earlier, stocky, neatly dressed, squeezes past me, frayed wires clutched in his hands, muttering about hard drives and backups.

Despite the urgency in the chatter of voices, the pound of hurrying feet, there’s a calm determination in the air, as if this is standard. Leaving at the drop of a hat. Another Wednesday. Grab your hair crimper and go.

It strikes a sense of longing within me, to be so ready to move. Down another hall, and through a living room, I find Cross standing with Atlas beside a mahogany door, reinforced with metal grating. The leader of the Blackguard is bent at the hips, zipping up cargo bags of gear, guns, and more cash than the GDP of Australia.

“It’s finished?” Atlas asks Cross, tone aloof, detached. I’m not even sure it’s a question.

Cross’s eyes are stuck on the middle ground between them, endlessly riddling out a way for me to get out of this mess.

Atlas straightens, thick black hair sliding to reveal twin points on his ears. Chire. Prey. Like me. He pats Cross on the biceps. “It’s forgiven, brother, do not worry. She was making you weak, you weren’t in your right head. In the end, this will be useful. Kleio will owe us for returning a princess.”

Kleio, I recognize the name of the Queensguard commander well. If they’re negotiating my return, then …

It’s good. For Cross.

The end for me.

I slump against the wall, the weight of failure like hot wax pouring over my bones, suffocating me.

“Look, Atlas …” Cross begins, raking a hand through his silky curls.

Lev appears, dragging Sin by the arm, another of the guard behind them—judging by the absent glazed look on green eyes: Zeke, the witch hunter.

“Where are we off to?” Sin drawls.

“Fire,” Zeke mutters in an eerie half here, half insane voice as he throws the hood of his trench coat up over his head.

“Black smoke,” Sin translates, hooking a gaudy orange and green Biermeister Ball buckle onto his belt. “Where there’s smoke, there’s fire? Is that all we’ve got?” He sighs, purple cat-eye sunglasses riding down his nose. “Hades, is that really all we’ve got? Fuck.”

A tip of Atlas’s head. “The Argos once used fire to control—”

“Fuck the Argos,” Lev interjects. “We’re going dragon hunting.”

They devolve into a debate on the legitimacy of dragons (of which, I can confirm, are real, scaled, and currently nesting in Loch Ness) as they haul bags to the black SUV idling on the street.

Like I have for weeks, I watch Cross, whose stuck still, a line etched in his forehead, and not for the first time. A horrible thought occurs to me.

This male is not a heartless monster. He’s a Nemean lion trapped in a cage, getting prodded and provoked for trying to protect his family.

And I could help him.

Do not take the risk, little bird. Yaya’s voice infiltrates me. Run. Run and survive. Let the lovelorn male protect you.

Better alone.

The motto burns against my skin, blackened from the rough suck of Cross’s mouth.

He’d released me, even if it meant he’d never be free of his curse. He’d thrown his weapons out the window, he’d strangled his power.

For me.

And I’m debating saving him? When I know precisely what they’re searching for. I’m the monster.

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