Page 67 of Creatures that Breathe

We speak at the same time and he takes pity on me. “Odd thing to lie about.”

“There’s nothing personal.” Bed, nightstands. It’s short one cheap robe and a room service menu from being a tier two hotel room.

“I’m in espionage.”

“Even here? Isn’t it just the Blackguard? They know you.”

“Do they?” A rough laugh. He rubs a hand down his face, and removes the divide between us, surveys the famed Syrup Disaster of ’91.

His confession tears me to shreds, his bitterness like lemon on a fresh cut. The constant loneliness … it’s more than one person could bear.

“I really wish you’d eat,” he rasps. “It’d take something off my mind.”

“Only if you do too.”

“Me?” He seems surprised, and it’s a blow straight to the chest that no one’s ever worried for him.

“You,” I echo softly, ignoring the big, rotating Quit Procrastinating lights flashing in my head. “You need strength too, right? And isn’t this an ‘eat when you can’ moment? No one’s attacking. There’s food. Excellent company. Cards.”

After we eat, then. That’s when I’ll ask him. I select the most saturated waffle and nibble. Sugar ecstasy.

Cross exhales like a weight’s lifted off his chest.

Heat tumbles off him in small, swirling eddies, blowing hot air on my skin as he rescues a floating strawberry and eats it, sucking juice and syrup off the pad of his thumb.

What happens next is wonderful … terrible.

We eat. Cross sticking to the least drenched of the berries, me picking up waffle slack. Somehow we get closer, invisible strings pulling us together, until I’m half resting against him, watching the window. My hair dries with a Cross imprint, and his arm snakes under mine, his hand caught onto my waist, palm flat, fingers sunk under the cotton.

The rain outside falls harder, obscuring the cute narrow street into a hazy gray blur. I sink into the steady rise and fall of his chest on my back and the tickle of his breath in my hair. Now, he smells like strawberries, clean and fresh.

“Leni,” Cross murmurs, his lips brushing my temple.

I make a small noise of protest, not quite ready to break this spell we’ve woven between us. His arm constricts around me slightly in response.

“You could’ve run,” he says. “You should’ve run.”

The deep timbre of his voice resonates through me, his last attempt to terminate the plan. That can’t happen. “I didn’t.”

I feel his nod, the tender brush of his fingers in my hair, before he steps back, wipes his palms down his jeans and puts half the room between us. “You like games. Let’s play a game. A question for a question. Honest answers.”

An echo of potent energy thrums around him, heaping heat into the room, without shadows.

“You’re … suddenly playful?”

His brows shoot up in surprise. “It’ll be fun. We’ll play until all questions become answers.”

Does he know?

He can’t.

Nerves trickle down my back like ice, spreading a shiver. I fold my arms. “Okay. How do I win? What are the rules? Are there time constraints? Who determines the level of honesty? What topics will we cover? How many passes do we get? Will it really be fun?”

He scrubs a hand over his face, and I flash a smug little smile, saying. “You should’ve known I wouldn’t blindly accept your premise without discussing it.”

He bites his lip, not to torture, but to hide a smile. “No passes, complete honesty and let’s allow rules to form naturally.”

“‘No lying’ should be a rule.”

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