Page 71 of Creatures that Breathe

And if I’ve done my math right, it’s game over.

16

Leni

what would he look like in the sun

The greed dooms me. Cross steps back, inhales, turns and rakes a hand through his hair. Takes off one sock. Two.

He says something. Something with the cadence of a question, but his hands are working free the buckle of his belt. I go deaf.

“What?”

In one smooth motion, he snaps his belt off and captures my hands with it. “I asked how old are you. Because I really need to know if I should hate myself for what I’m thinking right now.”

“It’s very mortal to concern yourself with age.” The leather tightens on my wrists. I pull at it. “I’m twenty-three,” I admit, not adding that I’m only twenty-three, not yet wholly immortal.

He lets me go and reaches to unclip a holster on his calf, discards a long serrated knife on top of the dresser.

I frown. “Does that really count?”

“It’s covering skin, isn’t it?”

“You blame a female for wanting to see more? After all, I might be the only creature who actually lives to tell the tale, spill the deets on what the spymaster truly looks like. No forked tongue. No scales … yet. Hate for the description to be partial.”

He smirks, stepping closer as he yanks his shirt over his head. “Who’s chasing you? Who do they work for?”

“Pants,” I say, but he’s already unzipping, watching me, waiting for an answer as he rips down his jeans. Naked save for black underwear and a black shoulder harness pinning a gun to his torso.

My cheeks are burning as he stretches out, a mile of pale cut muscle on display. Dark blood coagulated on his shoulder. “You still haven’t healed.”

“I’ll make time after our game. Who’s chasing you?”

“Guards,” I answer, skimming the truth. “They work for my fiancé.”

“Fiancé?” A growl.

“Is that a question?” He doesn’t need prompting. He’s tearing down his boxers. Nudity over the holster.

The fun seems to flicker away. “You really need the gun? Here with me?”

He tries for a smile as he sits on the bed, knees spread, shoulders pressed wide. Utterly unashamed.

And why shouldn’t he be when he looks like hand carved marble breathed to life? Long-limbed, lean, and hard all over.

All. Over.

I force my gaze away from his thighs, finish my perusal, and of all the ridiculous thoughts, I’m glad he ate. His muscles cut a little too ruthlessly into his legs and stomach.

This outrageous urge to feed him again hits me. I want to peel him an orange or rip the leaves off a strawberry and watch him eat, wince when the citrus seeps into his cut lip. Lick away the sting.

Kiss the tattoo on his throat, the bands on his wrist, hell, even the one on his ankle.

“I figured you’d pick the boxers,” he says, not denying he made a conscious choice to stay armed. Not even trying to.

A wisp of bitter anger unfurls over my skin. “You still don’t trust me? You think I’m after you? You think I’m … what? An assassin?”

“A spy, actually.”

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