Page 82 of Creatures that Breathe

A horn honks on the street.

“I’m not going,” Cross calls, sad, rubbing his temple. “I’m not … I can’t leave without her.”

My stomach clenches. He hasn’t found a reason, and he’s still putting his foot down.

“Vinia won’t harm her if that’s what you’re worried about,” Sin says, checking his nails, lobbing a bulky bag of clanging metal across his shoulder. “That’s why her kids are so fucked, not a female who disciplines. Certainly not deadly.”

As if the queen would care if I died. I step out of the hall and plant my feet.

“Restrain her,” Atlas snaps, slamming the door behind him, dusting his palms.

“You don’t want to do that,” I say, not looking at Cross, not at Sin, who’s reaching for me, but staring right at Atlas, at a fellow creature of prey. One who stole back power. “I know what you’re looking for.”

His eye twitches. “You don’t.”

I force my voice steady, strong. A bold move. A check. “I do. I’ve read through the entirety of the royal library, and I know there’s only one creature who produces black flames.” I fold my arms, jutting my chin high. “And I’ll tell you everything so long as you agree to hide me from the prince.”

An exchange. My last, most damning secret. For Cross.

The air around me turns heavy, as if a storm is about to break. I can sense Cross’s muscles tensing in anticipation as he subtly shifts his weight, creating a barrier between me and Atlas, a spark of resolve in his glare.

Judging from the dart of the Blackguard leader’s eyes, the gesture does not go unnoticed. Atlas grabs Sin’s elbow, and demands quietly, “Get her to talk and—”

“He’ll never outrun them,” Cross states, not cocky, just assured. He doesn’t look at me, but a tendril of black slinks across his knuckles, and I know he’s thinking of me. “If we honor her terms, it has to be me. I’ll be her escort.”

19

Leni

wherever the string is after a balloon pops a hole and fucks off: evidently not a beach

I never stood a chance. I thought he was good. But now, seeing him like this, I’m in awe. I finally understand the question, the reason I’ve been asked over and over how I found him. Because this male could disappear in an open room, vanish under a spotlight.

My hand bound in his, Cross leads me down the damp streets of Copenhagen, steps confident, eyes fixed ahead. Not some silly tourist. He’s a local, winding us across streets like we’re late picking up the kiddos from karate.

I’m lost. I’ve been lost.

It’s what he does.

The male who infiltrated the hidden gardens of the Hesperides, who deciphered the Nemean code to bring an end to the Pelt Wars, the male who made me cry out his name. He’s playing ten steps ahead and rushing to spread the lead.

He had us out of the house in a matter of minutes, speaking urgently with Atlas, accepting blades and guns from Sin, hiding them on his person, all while demanding boots for me, as well as a coat.

Thanks to me, his own jacket has bullet holes in it, so he’s borrowed Atlas’s suit coat, the sleek navy over his gray hoodie, paired with relaxed dark jeans, black boots tough enough to stop a train, he’s all I want to look at.

Sightseeing be damned.

The scent of rain floats in the air, tacky on my skin. As if bent to his will, the sun faded when we stepped outside, blocked by dense, brooding clouds.

If it weren’t for his insistent grip on me, I’d have lost him ten times over.

An act as simple as turning my head spikes anxiety in my chest, makes me forget what I’m doing, stirs a few seconds of panic each time I glance over my shoulder and shudder that a stranger is holding my hand, guiding me.

Then it crashes back, violently, all at once—his kiss, his mouth, the look in his eyes as he told me to run, the relief just after.

I clench his fingers tighter, shuffle closer to him, inhale his clean scent, and melt into his warmth.

“Cross,” I murmur, pinching the silky back of his coat.

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