Page 26 of Creatures that Breathe

Or maybe it’s minutes. It’s probably seconds.

My pulse has run a marathon, but the rain hasn’t slowed, the clouds haven’t moved.

“It’s your hair,” he says finally, tipping his head back. His knife clatters next to his shoe. “It’s that fucking hair.”

My hair? I’ve witnessed more descents into madness than the average creature. Nine out of ten begin with hair.

Hair unlocks the crazy.

Fortunately, I have a tried-and-true solution. Device reset via a dose of flagrant offensive reality.

“You are not dying here,” I command darkly. “The Blackguard doesn’t get to die here, alone and quietly. Your death’s going to be spectacular and violent, and it might be sooner than you think because highly trained, very pissed off, morally repugnant males are after you right now.”

The spymaster lets out a half caustic, half amused breath. “Are you threatening me to stay alive so that your men can kill me?”

If that’s what it takes. “What happened to they can try, and dozens too small a number? Where’s I’m a badass who speaks without any eye contact? Huh? Where’s that male? He owes me a favor.”

“He’s getting non-consensually fucked by his friendship bracelets.”

I shove up the thick wet leather of his sleeves to stare at the twin black bands. “You mean these?”

They’re hurting him? How?

“Don’t touch them,” he rumbles.

I hastily yank back, heart beating at mouse narrowly escaping the slap of a trap levels

If those tattoos can bring him to his knees, what would they do to me? “What do they do?”

The spymaster’s eyes peel apart slowly, revealing two unholy black stars “You distract me ...” He’s somber, explaining a question I haven’t asked. “You’re dangerous. You can pretend you’re not, but you’ll be the end of me.”

“I won’t—”

“That fucking coat. Who wears a pink fucking coat. And those eyes?” He shudders, pounds his wrists into the unforgiving ground. “Blue all week.” He grinds those tattoos into the gravel and ice, bloodying the black ink. He forces out a rough breath. “Blue. All fucking week. Following me.”

Okay. Jeez. “Disapproving of blue, got it. We need to go.” He can be mad at my hair and coat later, after he and I ... yeah.

“Do you remember my name?”

Are we having different conversations? I stare at him. “Yes. Of course I do. We need to go.”

He commands, “Say it then.”

I nearly don’t. Frustration clogging my throat, I almost give up on this entire night, this day, this sieve of a plan until his fingers coast along the ends of my bangs, follow the swell of my cheek down and tuck sloppy drenched hair over my ear, where he lingers.

Warm.

He’s so warm, I can feel his touch throughout my body, calming my racing thoughts.

“Please.”

“Cross,” I whisper. “Your name is Cross.”

He makes a noise in his throat—something frustrated and pained, and severs our connection, hand pulling away. “Very good. Now open your eyes.”

I don’t remember closing them, and now I’m afraid if I open them, the warmth will somehow vanish. “Why?”

“Because you should meet someone’s eyes when you ask them for a favor.”

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