Page 46 of Creatures that Breathe

He sighs at my lack of response, raises me in his arms and dumps me back into his chest.

“They’re dead,” he informs. Blunt. Dark. Not at all remorseful. “They were dead the moment they touched you. Now, use your words and tell me how many more I need to hunt down and eliminate before we leave.”

We? “I—” My voice cracks and breaks off. Gritty salt scratches the back of my throat.

I’d been free, sinking in the enormous ocean, rid of males and their demands. Liberated. And he’d plucked me out like a confused guppy.

A shiver inducing sound bleeds from Cross, but he doesn’t push, as if my proof of life is enough.

Gradually, his shadows dissipate, revealing matte gray clouds and a narrow moon. We’re on the shore, leaving a lone set of large footprints in the gravel.

I’m cradled in Cross’s arms and bodies surround us. Mangled and dirty. Dead. The scent of blood and decay mingles with the dampness of the waterfront.

Up to his ankles in the surf, Lev’s bent over, disassembling a gun and discarding the pieces in the waves. “No IDs,” he tells the spymaster.

Cross responds with a slew of words I dislike. AKs and Sigs and bodies.

I tune it out.

The rain’s stopped. The blood, which should’ve diluted, forms amorphous shimmering pink pools under the fallen.

I feel like I’m watching a game of checkers. Black and red charge across a helpless board, slamming and crashing. Defiant, purposeful. I don’t care which side wins and yet, I’m fixated on every advancing move.

I should pick a side.

I should flip the board.

Cross exhales sharply, breath curling in the chilly early morning air as he and Lev shift the discussion to why the soldiers attacked.

In the nebulous of my mind, I have answers. Draven sent his most wretched sentries to collect me so I could go play obedient, braindead wife.

Cross and Lev, they were just collateral damage, obstacles to grabbing me. Non-players. And yet they killed everyone.

These are the sides I have to pick between?

The first glimmer of the sun kisses the horizon, casting a lonely golden hue over the rocky beach. We’re a handful of hours into the day.

How many have already died because of me?

“We could’ve fucking asked.” Lev shakes his head at Cross as he wipes his hands clean with his shirt. There isn’t a scratch on him thanks to the speed of immortal healing. “Drake likes leftovers. Hell, they probably would’ve talked at the mention of his involvement. You didn’t even consider what we could have gained with a hostage.”

“I did.”

Lev snorts, but Cross’s eyes drink me in and I’m surprised to find staunch resolve there. As though there is no realm in which his decision to leave no survivors could be considered wrong. As if it were the only conclusion he’d reach in every scenario.

No mercy for the males who hurt me.

I wonder if I’m still sinking in the ocean, holding on to my last breath as ice infiltrates my veins and the tide throws me. Surely that’s the only explanation for the shortage of revolt in my stomach, and the pull of liquid warmth down my spine.

Sirens scream in the distance.

Ambulances that have nobody to save. Police who will never find the killers.

The Russian groans. “You don’t think they heard the thousand gun salute over the storm?”

“Funny,” Cross fires back, dry as a bone. “I had to make a choice.”

“Next time shoot a flare gun directly at the station.” Lev returns to patting down bodies, emptying pockets, disarming weapons. “This is why I prefer fists. You’re too out of practice. What happens when you’re out of bullets? What then?”

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