Page 50 of Creatures that Breathe

The edge of Cross’s mouth curls as he meets my eyes, still holding his shirt instead of wearing it. “And what would you call them, Leni?”

What would I call beings that would have lightning slap us out of the sky and send us into the hungry mouth of a thousand toothed sea monster if I insulted them? I shrug. “Capricious.”

His laugh is deep and lovely, and sends blood rushing to my cheeks.

I have no idea how much time has passed since we were in that street. Since my plan imploded once and for all. Only that now I’m wearing Cross’s old t-shirt and brand new socks that crawl up my calves, and under his attention, I still feel utterly exposed.

The higher we climb, the brighter the sky gets, and the more looking burns my eyes.

I can still feel Cross pulling the cotton over my head, dousing me in the scent of smoke and rain and him. Still feel the goosebumps on my neck as he carefully freed my trapped hair from the collar. The glide of his knuckles on my neck sending goosebumps down my arms. “It’ll do,” he’d muttered, facing the security cameras point blank as he stole the thickest socks off a rotating display, and bending down to his knee to guide my wet wrinkled feet into clean black knee highs.

Then, Cross made two phone calls, and an hour of silence and pothole dodging later Lev was hopping out of our cab to open the gates to the tiny, un-towered airport. The narrow white plane was already waiting, engines warm.

The Kingsguard may have fallen, but they’ve lost none of their power. Even banished and hated, a predator never truly loses.

“Are you hungry?” Cross asks, pulling my attention from the smoking city disappearing on the horizon. “What about thirsty? How is your temperature? Your lips are still blue.”

Carefree. Chatty. He’s in Lev’s seat, finally wearing his shirt, long deft fingers peeling a mandarin orange. No, a tangerine. Clementine. Pomelo?

I snap at him. “How can you eat right now?”

“I’m hungry.”

So cavalier. So unaffected. “You haven’t even rinsed all the blood off.”

“What’s the point? Besides, I’ll never truly have clean hands, will I?”

Is he making a joke? “Aren’t you ashamed?”

His fingers pause, silver and black eyes flicking up to meet mine. “If I waited for the guilt to fade, I’d starve. Soldiers eat when there’s food, rest when it’s possible.” He holds out a slice, picked entirely clean of pulp, for me. “Never know when you’ll need both.”

I ignore the offering, return to the window. I’m not angry at him. Part of me even wants to thank him for the Ballasts, for Odren, for pulling me out of the water.

It’s almost surreal. When I close my eyes, I remember parts of his rescue. Fractured, out of time moments.

Fingers on my pulse, firm hands urging my heart to beat. Whispers and snarls. Breathe. Breathe. That’s it. Breathe. Lips on my forehead. A burst of hot energy wrapping me up. That’s it. There you are.

His skin molding to mine, him wringing out my hair, demanding that I hold on, telling me good. One particular whisper, so frantic, so hoarse, and dark and rushed as I coughed up water and salt, makes my skin tighten. That’s my good fucking girl.

I cross my legs, and pluck salty, scraggly hair from behind my ear to mask the flush in my cheek. That male had been desperate for me, willing to pull realms apart to save me, and now he’s … snacking.

No, I’m not mad at him. I’m mad at myself for not being mad, for marveling at the death he reaped all for me.

Gods I wish I were mad. Wish I weren’t struck dumb with awe at his trail of destruction. Wish I wasn’t flattered each time he wielded his immense dark power like party trick for me. Warming my toes with the same shadows that severed the heads of my enemies. It’s as absurd as using a jaguar as a foot rest.

And it electrifies me.

Which terrifies me. I’ve inadvertently created an endless loop of I-love-it, I-love-it-not when it comes to this male. He threatened me. He protected me! He left me. He found me! He bit me. He kissed me! It’s exhausting.

“Do you remember who I am?” Cross asks suddenly. If he chews any harder on his mouth, he’ll shred it.

“Blackguard.”

“Yes. Good.” A slight nod. “My brother in the Blackguard, Drake, he’s a lot like me. He goes by many names. Inquisitor, oppressor, thug. Tormentor. We’ve always referred to him as our interrogator because there’s not a word for ‘impalement expert’ in every language.”

“I know of Drake.” The king’s favorite.

If he’s surprised he doesn’t show it. “Good. Here’s where Drake and I differ. He believes strict and unrelenting torture is the only true path to gaining information, and he’s been extraordinarily successful.” He splits the tiny orange into segments, juice running down his fingers. “We have until wheels down to ensure there’s nothing for him to wonder about you.”

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