Page 37 of Creatures that Breathe

“Not that either.”

My brow arches. “Thought homicidal silhouette was too mouthy.”

“You did your research.” His voice is low, challenging. “ I’m sure you have plenty of names for me.”

Too many. Killer. Traitor. Villain. Maniac. Sociopath. Every vile word I’ve ever screamed into a pillow about Draven has been hurled at Cross.

I don’t want to call him any of those things. They don’t fit right.

“Just tell me what to call you.”

“Ah. You’re not as brave as you want to seem.” He’s cold. Ice. Fun’s over. Thanks for playing.

My reflection frowns.

He unfurls to his full height, sucking up every peal of light from the room, green numbers on the microwave, red timer on the coffee pot, even the glow of the streetlamps outside dim. “Don’t tell me you’re afraid to cast a couple deserving words at a killer.”

Not at a killer who defended me, who kissed me, who complimented me. I keep quiet.

“Abomination,” he murmurs, rough voice coming from behind me. “That’s my favorite. The corrupted blood of a mortal given eternal life.”

He wants to scare me, but actions speak louder. “Doesn’t roll off the tongue. Besides I think it’s pretty.”

“Pretty?”

“Your blood. It’s … vibrant. As bright as the heart of a fire, and runny like juice from a fresh cherry. Makes me crave a strawberry lollipop.” Few things don’t. Crystallized sugar: inject it into my veins.

Before Cross, I’d never seen such red. True immortals only have ichor flowing through them. Silver and viscous. Poisonous. The rest of us, descendants of the Gods, have both, making our blood pinkish and shimmery, a cutesy imitation.

“Do you enjoy seeing me bleed, Leni?” he asks, voice a little hoarse.

“Of course, I don’t.”

“So it just makes you … hungry?” His hungry is not cannibalism hungry, it’s craving hungry. Urges and indulgences and impulses.

No. Definitely no, would’ve been my answer before he kissed me with a split lip, before he devoured me, pinned me beneath him, rolled his hips into me, before a hot, mounting sensation flooded my lower belly. I close my eyes. “How’d you know I was following you?”

He lets out a chuckle from deep in his throat.

The hair on my nape rises. I’ve no idea where he is, but I can feel the rapture of his gaze down my body in the rumble of his, “C’mon.”

I smooth my puffer, despite being dirty and wet, it still seems to glow. “This doesn’t count. I planned this for the meet and greet.”

“Of course,” he teases. “The plan.”

“How did you really know? I did everything by the book. Newspaper shields, umbrella blocks. I made up aliases. I wore disguises.” Saying it aloud wipes the smile from my face. Scuttling around streets, eavesdropping, clumsy accents. It’s Yaya. It’s crazy. This isn’t play with your senile great-great-great grandmother.

This is I’m-alone-in-the-dark-with-an-assassin-and-a-loaded-gun.

“Yes, I do recall a hat and glasses at some point.” He’s smiling. I hear it.

My cheeks flush with mortification. “So you knew the whole time?”

Silence. Pitch black silence. My frustration bubbles to the surface. “Why didn’t you say anything? If someone was stalking me, I would …”

“You would what?” I jolt at the closeness of his voice. The whisper that surrounds me like warm smoke. “What would you do if you were being hunted?”

“I’d …” I stop, drop my forehead to the cool glass window

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