Page 85 of Creatures that Breathe

I don’t have a response to that.

I’m planless, out of depths.

“People are eating,” I blurt, like he’s offered to show me, in languid detail, precisely how skilled that tongue is. He doesn’t look at me, just bends to knock the snow off his jacket.

“Astute observation.” He’s smothering a smile. “Relax, pyro, I’ll not devour you here.”

Not here. Implying … Heat streaks across my body.

“I can’t talk to you like this,” I mutter, forcing my head straight. “There’s a perfectly good chair there. We can sit face to face.” I rise halfway to an awkward wall-sit-stand-stance that makes my thighs scream when Cross’s arm snakes around me, hauls me down and drags me along the cold lacquered bench to his side. Tucks me there.

“Sit close,” he orders, eliminating the air between us. “Couples are less suspicious. Even when you’re disappearing, you have to stay alert. There’s always a chance someone could be just as skilled as you.”

The way he says it, emphasizes you, sticks to me like a glossy gold star. Like I’m just as good as him out there.

The weather worsens, and the pub fills with mortals seeking shelter. The kitchen churns out hot plates of food, and the rugged, old world bar’s taps seem endless. In short, it’s the last place I’d ever go to hide. Bustling and intimate. Cozy in a hand carved chair backs and mismatched water glasses way.

I mention my observation to Cross, and he shrugs. “Seems like the perfect reason to stay.” He passes me a laminated menu. “Relax.”

Against all odds, I do.

I doubt anyone could follow him here, anyway. Not when I almost lost him, and I was physically attached to him.

The niggling questions bubbles up, along with annoyance. A bit of my pride deflates. “You weren’t really trying to lose me this past week, were you? I never followed you in circles.”

“The mere fact that you followed me at all means that you are a better tracker than creatures who live, breathe, and die by it.” He’s stern, direct. Forceful in his compliment. “It’s not exactly a skill a princess need possess.”

“Not a princess,” I remind him.

The low hum of dissent in the back of his throat vibrates along my arm.

Is this how we are now? After a male makes you come, does he require constant, physical contact? Am I supposed to be able to relax with him? If anything, it’s gotten harder to be around him. Every touch and glance taking me right back to Cross on his knees, feasting on me like a fresh chocolate fountain.

A waitress with a red poppy tucked behind her ear swings by, and Cross orders two of the local brews and the evening specials without hesitation.

It doesn’t escape my notice that it’s the most common plate sprawling around us. He doesn’t ask for substitutions or specify restrictions. It’s ordinary, easy, as if everything he does in life pivots on blending in. Vanishing is second nature.

Ridiculously, it irritates me. How accustomed he is to being insignificant. It couldn’t be further from the truth.

Through a series of awkward points and slow English, I stop our server and request a steaming cup of Pekoe tea as well. Cross’s usual.

He hooks his fingers over my knee, squeezes a thank you.

It’s funny. How easily he vanishes when every part of him stands out to me—how intently he speaks, the way he slowly draws back his hood, leaves it slovenly gathered on his shoulder, how he leans back from the bench to make himself seem less imposing, even folds his long legs up beneath our table.

None of it works. He’s no less striking. Smooth cheekbones, lips stained from biting, those eyes. Those captivating eyes, the slashes of obsidian.

Sometimes I forget exactly what shade his hair is—debate internally if it’s soft brown or honey brown—but I always know those eyes.

I undo my scarf when two pints hit our table with a flash of poppy.

“The Blackguard,” he says, “was honored with gifts. Enhancements to our natural proclivities.” His voice is right in my ear. He’s warm, like always, and smells like rain, fresh air. I nuzzle closer, linking up with him.

A date, yes.

I can imagine it.

His hand covers mine, trapping it against my knee. “Can you guess what mine was?”

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