Page 57 of Creatures that Breathe

“Finished?” he asks, thumb stroking my cheek, stealing tears as he carefully twists my hair back and tucks it in my collar. It’s too short to stay, leaking out in a blue bloom around my face as I turn to face him.

Black starburst eyes trap me in a pool of warmth, dust nibbles of electric current up my arms, and across my chest.

“Better now?”

I nod, cheeks red with the burn of humiliation. “Cross, I …” I hesitate, unsure what I’ve called this stranger. Mortification rears again as I fall back into reality.

This isn’t my room in the palace. There are no books, no maps, no cards. No game board, half played, teetering on my nightstand.

“Cross,” I breathe. This time, the name is familiar, heavy on my tongue, a passcode that unlocks emotion within him. His hand slides over my thigh.

“I—” The word rubs against my throat like sandpaper.

At once, he gathers me into his chest. He smells like a winter’s night, clean and tranquil, and I bury into him, forehead pressing against his neck, arms coiled around his middle, reminding myself that if he’s here, there’s still hope.

His sturdy arms envelop me, drawing me into the hard planes of his chest until I’m clinging to him like a starving cobra, seated in his lap, ankles locking over the hard outline of the gun in his back holster.

Neither of us acknowledges what I’ve done, how I’ve wrecked this beautiful room. Cross simply walks us out, firm hands gripping my thighs, his mouth at my temple, saying, “It’s over. Eyes open now.”

We end up in a different bedroom, and as soon as he releases me, I rush for the bathroom, slamming the door shut, and clutching at the raised black slate counter. The stone is cool against my trembling fingertips, two of which are still faintly discolored, yellow and green.

A reminder that my kind are not designed to sustain injuries.

Draven always loved that.

The sink runs hot as I splash my face and hands. Wet down the frizzy aqua ends of my hair.

“Come back out here.” Cross’s voice is right on the other side of the wall, a blend of concern and authority.

I can’t face him. Show him how weak I am, how I’ve been pretending all this time. “No.”

I draw in a deep breath, trying to steady myself. Grip the sink until my arms shake.

I promised myself to never again be the girl in the dream. Neither the tortured victim nor the helpless bystander. I want to be strong like Cross. A male who walks into battles with his head high, who shoots without hesitation, who kisses like a storm.

“Please come out, Leni. We need to talk.”

“I need a toothbrush.” My cheeks redden as I say it. I avoid the mirror, the sad, broken core I’ve wrapped in tattoos and dye. Steel myself. “And I need soap and—”

The lock on the door shears, clunks and swings wide for Cross to stride into my space, behaving as if he didn’t notice the sound of crunched metal. “Use mine.”

He steps past me, a train of silken shadows gliding over the tile, splashing around my ankles, and retrieves a white toothbrush from the shower, snatches toothpaste with it and sets them in front of me. “Help yourself to anything.”

He sounds earnest, and his eyes soft like they were when we hid in the coffee shop, and he’s close, closer than he lets himself get to me, heat swirling from him and crashing over my spine, the back of my thighs.

I want to fall back into him, want to bury myself in black, feel it lick all around me, warm and wholesome, like an endless night.

Wouldn’t I?

His threat pierces my stomach.

“Where’s Drake?” I ask.

“How should I—” He starts and quickly stops himself, as if threatening torture is easily forgotten. “No Drake. I won’t let him get near you.”

Avoiding his reflection, I spin the flat handle of his toothbrush across the counter, ignore the waves of sweet heat pooling up against my back like a caressing shore. “Because I’m pathetic? Or because I’m weak and you loathe me? Because I’m helpless?”

Words Draven sneered at me too.

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