Page 94 of Creatures that Breathe

“I trusted you!” I shout, wincing under Draven’s hold. “I thought you were better!”

“They’re animals,” Draven coos to me. “Look at them. Chained like animals for killing a delusional king. They only care about their own hides. Fitting that you ended up with them, angel.”

“I’d rather dogs than a rat,” I sneer, and then pain, white hot pain, explodes against my cheek. A slap. With his rings.

I taste blood. Thick and acrid.

“No!” Cross’s shout echoes off the buildings, rumbling and ruinous. I catch a glimpse of Atlas splayed on the ground, Cross lunging for me.

Draven snaps harsh fingers, and in an instant, ten loaded guns are trained on Cross, red dots converging on his chest. “How many bullets to kill the spymaster?” he taunts. “Should we place bets?”

The sentries chuckle. Safety’s tick off.

“Release her,” Cross demands, muscle jumping in his cheek. Wisps of black peel off his skin, swirling like dark, deadly steam.

Brave behind a barricade of sentries, Draven calls, “You’re mistaken if you believe you are in a position to dictate terms. Allow me to inform you that my father no longer protects you.” He yanks me tighter to him, my face crushing into the silk of his shirt. I choke on the scent of apples. “You ought to fall to your knees and kiss my feet for sparing you after you dared to touch my wife.”

Cross tenses. The mist surrounding us darkens.

Shoving up from the ground, dusting off his coat, Atlas snaps, “Stick to the terms, Draven.”

“That’s ‘His Grace’ to you, palace scum. The deal was your lives for the female. I didn’t say how I would keep her, or what would happen after I got her.”

Atlas swears under his breath, but Cross is still growling, low and menacing. “If you hurt her in any way,” he warns.

“Do you not understand that I’m the one with the power here?” Draven’s drunk on besting males who could turn him to dust if they were alone. “You are less than the dirt under my shoes. You are nobody. Nothing. And my wife will forget you the minute I take her home. Perhaps earlier, if she knows what’s good for her.“ He keeps his gaze on Cross as he strokes my cheek. “Will you behave for me, angel?”

I glare, pouring every ounce of my hate in a single despicable look.

This time, when he hits me, I crumble to the ground, body giving way to the blaze of pain across my face.

He shakes my limp elbow off the tip of his shoe, and in a bored, droll voice, commands his sentries to open fire.

23

Cross

outside Nyhavn Pub Sankt. Pinned

Bullets carve trenches into the ground at my feet. Atlas and I move in sync, ducking from the onslaught and diving apart.

Decades of instinct drive me. I overturn an ice slick metal table and crouch behind it, breath hacking at my lungs like a rusty blade. Gunfire hammers deep divot into the tables’ surface. It won’t survive for long.

On the opposite side of the pub’s entrance, Atlas claims a stone berm as his shield, body contorted to stay clear of bursting rubble. Too loud to shout, I signal for him to lay cover for me.

In slow motion, he shakes his head no.

A lead-heavy furl uncurls within me. Time slows as his index finger jabs at his shirt, marking a clear X.

I shake my head, not understanding—shit.

My chest stings. It’s wet and warm. I’ve been hit.

An inconvenience swept aside by pulsing adrenaline. I swallow the pain and signal Atlas to lay down crossfire. Again.

Another denial. Won’t work, he mouths, ticks up fingers, telling me too many.

He’s right. Doesn’t mean I like it. Draven’s guards have us effectively surrounded. From the moment I clocked them, I realized escape was impossible. Too many men, too many witnesses, too many weapons. Running would guarantee bullets in our backs.

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