Page 134 of Creatures that Breathe

Direct, commanding, detached. She sounds so much like Atlas, I feel a ridiculous urge to laugh.

As the Queensguard disperses into the woods, I struggle to stay upright. My vision blurs and fades as the pain gnaws at me. Yaya’s voice echoes in my mind, urging me to run, but my body can barely move, let alone run.

The cut in my arm is too deep. I messed it up, sliced something critical. I stagger.

Little bird, run, Yaya would beg.

I don’t want to run. Yaya’s running set me on this path. Just as generations before her ran and abandoned her.

How much suffering has resulted from our running? Because we’re weak? Because we’re not fighters?

Luke’s mortal, he fights. Atlas is a Chire. Cross doesn’t know his own name, and he fights.

It’s past time we fought.

At the edge of the forest, Kleio hands me off to a trio of sentries with a triumphant, “And that’s how it’s done, kiddos.”

They drag me through the trees, trudging over thorny sticks and stamping out patches of scratchy snow.

I unleash my most valuable gift: procrastination. I stumble and limp and trip, delaying the inevitable until the biggest male grows impatient and hoists me roughly over his shoulders.

Blood rushes to my head and slams everything black.

The next coherent thought that crosses my mind is that Draven looks oddly small in front of a helicopter. Almost disproportionate. As if he rolled out of a gumball machine in a little clear ball.

We’re in a narrow clearing, wind howling across dead yellow grass. The helicopter’s blades slice through the air with a guttural mechanical buzz.

Hands clasped at his waist, Draven’s puffy face reveals no hint of emotion, only cool detachment as he regards me being lugged towards him like a sack of rotten potatoes.

I’m dumped unceremoniously at his feet, a tangled heap of limp limbs and torn clothing, dried pine needles sticking to my skin. The prince surveys me with beady blue eyes, a predator deciding if it’ll risk consuming rancid meat.

Run, run, run! Yaya screams in my head.

I teeter to my knees, cradling my injured arm.

I hope Cross runs.

“My wife,” Draven’s cold voice cuts above the helicopter’s din. He’s not wearing a suit as he prefers, nor armor like his sentries. He’s wearing slacks as if it’s a regular day. Like I’m nothing special.

I feel faint. The needles stuck to my palms are turning dark pink, but I glare up at him defiantly. “If I recall, we haven’t signed the papers.”

His lip curls in a sneer. “It’s over, angel. Time to beg for my forgiveness.”

“We’re not getting married. You don’t want to marry me.”

“Oh angel,” he tsks, amused by my feeble mind. “Just because you’ve gotten fat and graffitied your body, you believe you’re free. I’ll peel all of it off you, inch by inch, imperfection by imperfection.”

I serve him a big, toothy grin. “You don’t want me. I’m not a virgin anymore.”

He hits me across the face with a force that makes my head spin.

Black dots my vision. I gasp and spit blood onto my thighs.

“Don’t you dare speak back to me,” Draven sneers, yanking a handful of my hair and pulling me to my feet. He scowls at the blood gushing down my forearm, splashing onto his loafers. “You’ve made a mess of yourself when this body isn’t even yours to play with. It’s mine.”

“Let go of me.”

He grabs my chin, forces me to meet his gaze, fingers like hot branding pokers. “Never.”

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