Page 58 of Creatures that Breathe

The back of my eyes burn.

Do not cry.

He doesn’t get to see me cry. None of them do.

Cross brushes a wet strand of teal from my face. “Lev only said those things to hurt me. He thought you were sleeping. He’s not trained to pay attention to the offended hitch of your breath when you’re insulted, or how your pulse races when you hold your tongue. When the authenticity of your tattoos came up, I thought you might strangle him.”

To hurt him? I glance up and identify the silky glimmer in his gaze as … approval. “You knew I was faking?” A good tactic, until I’d actually fallen asleep.

The corners of his mouth curve. “When have you ever done what I asked you to?”

His ragged don’t stop, don’t you ever stop, comes to mind. The burn of his tongue across my throat, the thrust of his hips into me. Sparkling friction.

“Do you have a lot of nightmares?” he asks. Careful. Soft.

I yank my focus from his mouth. I have nothing but nightmares. “I told you I don’t like violence.”

Half sad, he stares at me for a long moment. “Then maybe the next time I ask you to close your eyes, you do it.” He steals the toothbrush from under my pinky. “My toothbrush. The soap’s in the shower, towels are—”

“This is your toothbrush?”

A pause. “I don’t keep a spare.”

“You have an entire spare bedroom, but the line stops at extra toothbrush?”

A half-amused, half-challenging glean in those obsidian eyes. “The guest room is plum full of rainbow unicorn toothbrushes, cotton candy mouthwash, and enough whipped body butter to dye the Thames purple. However, I don’t think either one of us wants you back there, so unfortunately, these are my rooms and I only keep what I need. No excess.”

“Plum full?” My eyebrows are in my hairline.

He chews on the inside of his lip. “I’m older than I look, pyro.”

Pyro. Low blow. “How much older?”

He has to think about it. “I believe I attended a ball to celebrate England’s first railway steam locomotive.”

That’s … a couple hundred years. Spare change in the world of creatures and Gods. I press a finger into the single worry line in his forehead and tease, “So, not much older than you look.”

His smile disarms me, feels like fresh, cotton sheets spreading over my skin, coaxing me to stay, to snuggle and block out the world with it’s staggering thread count.

“Cotton candy mouthwash?” My voice is throaty. Wrong. “Really?”

“Sweet tooth,” he accuses wryly. “There were misguided assumptions regarding the preferences of our female counterpart. It’s still hotly debated. The contraband remains as proof of intent to harm.”

Gods, why is he still smiling? He’s smothering me.

“I’ve never shared a toothbrush.” The minute it’s out, I feel dumb. Young and inexperienced and one hundred percent stupid vomiting pathetic female.

He looks at me like I’ve said something radical, runs the white bristles under the water, and chases the excess down the drain with his fingers. “Now’s the chance to mention, I haven’t attempted cohabitation either, and some really impatient ass broke the lock to the only bathroom.” Lip chewing, slanted eyes. “Not an ideal start, to say the least.”

“Why?”

“Impatient asshole.”

“Glaringly obvious.” It’s supposed to be pointed and barbed—duh, you murder people—but the scent of oranges, missing the usual sour, tart, nose tickling notes blankets me, and my words fall out teasing. Flirtatious even. “Why have you never lived with someone?”

Why do you care?

I shove the toothbrush in my mouth. Spearmint.

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