Page 39 of Creatures that Breathe

Then he bends down to one knee in front of me, projecting every bit the warrior he is. Strong, capable, formidable. There’s a gun in his hand, he’s checking it over like I would an old manuscript. Meticulous. Covetous. It’s not the oily black one I stole from him. This is shiny and silver and belongs on a spaceship. Did he pick it up or have it this whole time?

Is he going to shoot me with it?

Guns are so loud.

They probably hurt so fucking much.

“I first saw you in the hotel lobby,” he says, his voice low, not as distant, not as severe, reminding me of an innocuous night, early, calm. A few stars. He presses the gun against my shoulder, cold metal and feather down. “You had bandages here”—the muzzle drifts to my sternum—“and here. And I couldn’t see it, but the way you were angled, I bet there was a big one running down your spine.”

Bandages over my tattoos. Freshly inked.

The end of the gun stays glued to my chest, compressing pink puffer, crinkling a hidden bow. “The next time I saw you, I convinced myself it was a coincidence. You couldn’t take your eyes off the sea, as if it were feeding you life’s answers.”

I swallow, mumble, “I lived on the Olympic coast.” Before Draven stuffed me in the desert.

Cross nudges the gun to my chin, tipping me back to meet his stormy gaze. He’s chewing his lip again, studying me. just like he had before he kissed me. His voice curls around me rich and dark, like the best bitter dessert, “I convinced myself it was me following you.”

The gun slips, swings on his middle finger like a key chain and his fingers wander to my hair. It’s damp and knotted and smokey, but under his caress it’s silk. “It made more sense to me. That I would follow you.”

Questions populate in odd places in my head. Heated, shadowy, unfamiliar corners. My skin feels too tight under his undivided attention.

“Then, in the teahouse on Oleviste,” he says before I utter a word. “I caught you. Boots with the laces undone, a fresh white bandage crawling up your ankle. You were reading the arts section in the local paper, but you don’t speak Estonian.”

I followed him to ten in the last week, but I know the exact shop he’s talking about. Stuffy drop down ceilings, stained glass, a pre-war register. “So you think,” I return, tired of being underestimated.

“You don’t,” he purrs, like he’s paid enough attention to not wonder about me, but to know. “You ordered the chai with your fingers and when Katrin asked iced or hot, you gave her a thumbs up. Very American.”

Latent frustration bubbles under my skin, hating that he’s right. I’d been trying to order the gingerbread latte, extra whip cream. “Katrin mumbles.”

“Hmm.” He lets go of a dark blue tendril, tongue sneaking out to wet his lips.

“And since when does a thumbs up mean ice cold?” I ask, grasping onto that annoyance. Six Euros. “Chilled milk and leaf water. I had to shock it with stevia and …”

I stamp my mouth shut. Almost laugh.

I’m on the ground, nuzzling dirt and ice, inhaling smoke, a gunshot ringing in my ear. Still, it’s sitting there on the edge of my tongue. A laugh.

“You’re good at it too,” I say, accuse, a bit too sharp. Good at rescuing me from my own mind. Bringing me to a happy place.

His dark gaze lingers on me, probing for a sign of the breakdown that he’s shoved to next week. His lip curls and he bites it. Smirks. “Took a class, barely listened.” Just watched is unspoken. It’s right here, on the line between us.

He was always watching me. Aware of me.

“I …” thank you. You’re looking for thank you, Leni.

“I knew what you were immediately.”

I shut my mouth.

Something hard and metal presses into my palm. A knife. Sturdy, warm hands wrap my trembling fingers to clasp the curved hilt. “Intelligent,” he clarifies. “Dangerously intelligent to the degree of reckless, of thinking you can outmaneuver any problem with invincibility.”

It’s an insult, surely. One I like. More than I should, and it doubles the guilt in my stomach. “And you’re still giving me a knife?”

“Why do you think I’m keeping the gun?”

“Rude.” But fair.

“Breathe,” he commands as he turns my wrist to keep me from slicing my coat. “Separate what’s happening from what you’re feeling because this has to get a lot messier before it gets better.”

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