Page 143 of Creatures that Breathe

I can hardly bear to look at Leni for fear she’ll set vacant eyes on me.

Or worse, wary eyes.

Gleaming silver hair cascades down her shoulders. No bangs, no tattoos, no colorful make-up. She wears a simple white robe, tied snugly at her waist.

Based on her stringent avoidance of the door, and insistence on studying the plain cream wall directly in front of her, she knows I’m here. Resents me for being unable to leave her.

I will, I tell myself every quarter hour.

I will leave when she asks. I will.

Until she explicitly asks, I will savor every fleeting glance and attempt insufferably to patch the holes in my heart.

“Do you remember why you got a tattoo of the palace?” Atlas asks.

Leni’s hand instinctively goes to where the tattoo used to be on her elbow.

“It was a warning,” she says. Despite the blank face and distant gaze, I spot a miniscule tremor in her hand—an unsaid confession of the pain hidden beneath layers of bravado. “It reminded me to never return.” Her gaze jumps over me in favor of Atlas. “Draven was there, he—” she twists her head into shoulder, wincing in pain, a whine in her throat—

“That’s enough,” I snap, instantly standing before her, obnoxious and insufferable, snatching the sketch from Atlas. “We’re done for today.”

“Let her decide,” Atlas replies curtly, unwilling to lend me any of his newfound patience.

“It’s hurting her,” I grate out, voice harsher than intended.

Two days ago, I couldn’t protect her, but today, now. I will. Every day for the rest of my existence, I will act as her shield.

Leni recoils at my nearness, shrinking back like a scared animal.

I bite my lip until I taste copper. Eyes burning, throat like a sandstorm, I give space to the woman I love. Shove a greedy hand into my pocket.

Calm down.

I’m not doing this right. I’m not saying anything right, and I want—I need—to get it right.

“She asked to try,” Atlas reminds me.

“She wanted to try for you!” I roar, control finally snapping. “She’s doing it for you, because you asked. This is exactly what she feared most—becoming a hollow shell consumed by pain. Continuously dredging it up is not good for her.”

Feeling like she’s slipping through my fingers, I redirect my attention to Leni, a croak filtering into my voice at the pain etched on her face. “You need to build new memories, Leni. Happy ones. Ones that aren’t the worst fucking parts of your life. Please.”

Leni watches us, monitoring, assessing. It’s eerie how similar she is to her former self, determining how to best navigate the situation, how to win.

It gives me this terrible hope that she’s in there, that there’s color and sarcasm and wit and Leni, my Leni in there.

I’m hers.

Against curses and Fates, under one vicious God or many, I am eternally hers. She has an unbreakable hold on me, soothing and strangling.

At last, she sighs, fixating on a point over my right shoulder, afraid to meet my eyes. “I don’t know where to begin with any of that.”

My heart burns at the mousy whisper of her voice, but it’s better than feeling my heart shatter when she convulses under a memory.

Her scent drifts toward me—honeysuckle sweetness with a crisp freshness. Bright, like her.

“I don’t …” she starts, then stops herself, muttering something I can’t quite hear. She turns to Atlas. “It couldn’t hurt,” she whispers to him. “Maybe we could …” she breaks off again, touching her neck, wincing.

I ball my hands into fists to keep from forcefully turning her face towards mine. “The beach,” I rasp, “You always talked about the beach. Let me take you,” I offer, broken, resigning myself to her denial. “Please, let me show you something else. Let me give you better. Please.”

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