Page 112 of Creatures that Breathe

He groans, bites his lip, a wild look flashing in his eyes before he steals my stars, hides them away from me under brown lashes. His fingers fold into a fist at my hip, thigh ever so slightly offering me the pressure I crave. “Right now, sleep.”

You’d think his curse was back from the tendons bursting in his throat, the bunch of his stomach under my hand.

I have pity on him. Tonight. I tuck my head back in its spot over his heart. “Then sleep.” My voice is as hoarse as his. “Imagine golden sand and turquoise waters. Palms rustling in the wind, seagulls cawing.”

“You swimming.”

I wince. “I can’t swim. But I’d watch you.”

“I can teach you.”

“I’d rather watch.”

He nods, goes somewhere far away, somewhere sunny and tropical, heart slowing to its normal slog under my ear. “Could you be happy there?” I ask.

A lazy sigh is all I get in response. Asleep.

I try to envision him at the beach, pacing beneath the bright yellow sun, holsters empty, tattoos bared. No shadows, no darkness. A scowl on his face.

I should’ve asked what I really wanted to. Would you come with me?

No. He’s given me an answer and lesson in one. Cross sees himself as Tantalus, forever serving penance for his supposed misdeeds. He believes he doesn’t deserve more.

He believes there are worse things in life than death.

How do I tell him he’s right?

29

Cross

personal quarters HQ Foxtrot-Uniform-Kilo Pvt. Road, Colchester, New York, 12776

I’m fucking this up.

I whip the match to snuff it and watch the delicate smoke stretch upward. Chase it with a streak of my gift, potent black firing from my palm, jumping up to devour the innocent tendril.

Get it together.

I snap my power up from the oily pool at my feet, directing it into a steel room in my chest, locking it there, melting the key.

The sheets are new, washed, pressed, folded and refolded. Tucked, cornered. Every crease clearer in my head than the back of my fucking hand. Candles pour over every workable flat surface, the credenza, the side table, the bare bookshelf is so bright, the National Forest Foundation registered it as an imminent threat.

Hundreds of tiny flames dance happily, waving little middle fingers at me.

The floor to ceiling windows face east, drenching the room in the morning winter sun. I can’t bring myself to draw the curtains. Too much of a bastard to grant Leni the privacy she deserves.

Greed.

Isn’t the first step to absolution identifying your sins?

What’s step two? Expunging them?

I can’t.

I’m doubling up on them. Greed. Lust. Even prides sweeps in. She chose me.

Because your nobody, the curse pipes up.

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