Page 106 of Creatures that Breathe

Glaring furiously at me, Lev paces, wrath as palpable as the darkness pooling in the corners of the room, crawling up the walls. He wants to yell at me, to remind me of every time Atlas has stood up for us.

As if I don’t remember. As if I can’t see that our leader’s every heartbeat is for the guard.

I use his native Russian to inform him, “Atlas stepped over the line this time.”

Lev holds back his retort, grits his teeth, responds in English, clipped, hurt. “I’ll send dinner. Eat.” After a moment’s hesitation, his attention flashes to Leni. “Both of you.”

An olive branch.

They shuffle out of the room, and a long rumble of relief vibrates through my body. I can barely sit upright, legs still bound to the bedframe, still bleeding, head still foggy with pain, but there’s blue beside me.

The exact shade I’ve dreamt about.

The med bay was considered oversight when we purchased the estate. Happened back when Luke thought he was working for a group of Army Rangers who’d made enemies in special investigations. Back then, Atlas believed the circle of trust didn’t include dudes off Craigslist offering wet work with expert efficiency.

It’s Luke’s domain now. The series of clinical interconnected rooms, crushed with rows of beds, medical equipment. He’s made it his own. A massive TV hangs on the wall, its sound system designed to blow out eardrums. Orange and white bottles are dotted between firearms and explosives beneath a Duke basketball poster. Damp laundry hangs off a wicker privacy screen.

The empty spots on the sprawling wall of cabinets is a testament to our increasing struggle with the curse, needles and thread and bandages we never used to need.

I don’t know what to say to Leni, but apparently asking “Are you hungry?” isn’t right.

It makes her heave with a sob, makes her bury her beautiful face in her hands.

She’s stunning. Frosty eyes swollen and bloodshot. Cerulean hair in clusters at her shoulders, bangs swept aside. Dingy gray lace drapes haphazardly around her waist. A long poofy skirt swallows her legs, torn and sooty, a grisly train drawn into a knot at her feet, tangled with dead leaves and sticks.

“Your wedding.” My stomach fills with cement. Failure carves my name into it. “I’m too late. I wasn’t quick enough.”

I feel the blood drain from my face. Heavy, crushing weight slams into my chest and stretches to the edges of my sanity, shoves. My elbow buckles, hits the metal rod my arms still locked to. I curse and rip free, relishing the lacerations it leaves on my forearm. What I deserve.

Leni sniffles, wiping her cheeks, white lashes sagging. “No. I’m not married. It’s a punishment. A reminder that I’m only his bride. Nothing else.”

My feet remain strapped to the bed, but I’m undeterred as I reach for her.

“Ten days,” she whispers, watching my fingers interlace with hers.

“Twelve days, six hours, and fourteen minutes.” Assuming Luke changed his clock for daylight savings.

“Ten days of pain,” she mutters in a low, furious voice, hair falling forward, eyes turning into an ice-storm. “How are you … how can you …”

“I deserved it,” I tell her. “I deserved worse. A hundred times worse for every breath of your suffering.”

“What suffering? I was stuffed in a room and dressed up like a doll. You were tortured. You …” She picks up the chains like they’re corpses, meek and horrified. “How?”

She was caged?

My stomach ties into knots. “I’m going to kill Draven, no matter what it takes. I vow it, Leni. I’ll find a way. Whatever decrepit corner of the realm he thinks will hide him, I’ll raze it. I’ll—”

Fresh pain lashes through me and I jerk against the restraints, hiss through clenched teeth.

Leni hurries to press against me, dropping into a repetitive chant, speaking of smoke and rebirth and vengeance, as if she’s possessed by the Oracle of Delphi. Eerie monotone, weaving tales of kings and Gods. Shit I don’t care about.

She’s smells of honeysuckle, faint, a whisper under the wood smoke. Her fingers brush my arm, soft, comforting. My pulse picks up and there’s an overeager leap in my chest. I strangle the pain, shove it to the back of my mind, and kiss her.

We both taste of blood and salt and tears as we yank into each other. Pulling and pushing. I can’t believe I almost lost her.

She pulls back too soon and my ankles hammers its restraints, frantic to reach her.

“Get me the key to these,” I beg, feverish, crazed. An addict relapsing. “They’re in the second cabinet. Between the rolls of tape. Red tags.”

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