Page 22 of Creatures that Breathe

The mob mentality is magnificent, both terrifying and fascinating. Frenzied creatures transition from foaming mouths to nursing headaches, clutching upset tummies, muttering obscenities, and shooting eye daggers at their drinking buddies.

Did he ...

He couldn’t have ...

Except, he did.

The entire Ballasts has forgotten who he is. Who came in here and obliterated the fan favorite just minutes ago.

I steal a glance at the emcee, whose rifle weaves over the crowd, searching for something he can’t quite identify. The pressure of his finger on the trigger twists my stomach.

Once he finds what he’s looking for, it’s dead.

Yes. The spymaster has done it. He’s made everyone forget.

Sweet Hera, he’s perfect. Everything I wanted. Violent. An enemy of the king. Evasive. With a dash of Kingsguard overprotectiveness, and now this. The ability to disappear.

Finally, my research has paid off. I’ve found the male who will set me free. A male who will have no qualms about defying the king’s wishes.

I need to find him. Now.

“He’s alive!” someone shouts from the ring. The revelation worsens the fog on everyone’s faces. Why are they mad if no one’s dead?

My relief is instant. The weight pressing down on my chest disappears, leaving me with a deep-rooted contentment that permeates every fiber of my being.

I meant what I said: I don’t want anyone hurt.

I refuse to be like Draven. I won’t kill to get what I need.

Entering Cross into the Ballasts was a necessary evil. I needed to see him fight, to determine if he could survive Draven.

I thought he’d toss a punch and it’d be over.

Then, at the market, when he backed away from me, when his threats fell flat and he ran, I panicked. I sprinted for the Ballasts, begged the emcee to strike his name from the roster, to keep him from walking into the ring and getting slaughtered.

He didn’t just survive, he dominated, put on an unrated-for-gore show and then wiped the entire memory from a room of fuming creatures.

He really is perfect.

A shout cleaves through the upheaval. One mind sharper than the rest. “It was the Bratva bastard. I saw him! He’s outside!”

Protect.

The command thunders inside my head, shooting my spine ramrod straight. Urgency acts as a lashing whip, sends my feet tumbling. Chasing a sudden impulse, I race for the door, only to grind to a halt mid-way, fixating on the towering wall drapery. I dig a hand into my sherpa lined pocket.

Best way to play defense? A harsh offense.

I work quickly, fingers nimble, ultra aware there’s a mob forming behind my back, reeking of sweat and alcohol. It’s not exactly protection. Prey don’t protect. This is a diversion, time to run, which is what I do best.

As soon as it’s done, I dive outside, slamming the ridiculously heavy door shut, and finishing the job off by tipping a lump of atrophying muscle in front of it.

It’s sleeting. Clear pebbles ching off the sidewalk and slinking underneath my collar, numbing my nape.

I hear him a block from the market while I’m cycling back to ensure no one’s following me. I’d almost forgotten about them, about my spymaster, but Lev’s deep, direct tone captures me. “Word is the whole south wing went up in smoke.”

I slump for cover in a dim alcove to the side and yank my hood up. I’m not an eavesdropper. Really. I’m an opportunist. And I have a sense I need to hear what he’s saying.

“An engulfing fucking blaze. It turned the sky pitch black.”

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