Page 88 of Creatures that Breathe

I take in his intense expression, and a warmth spreads across my skin, not his, not the tangible throw of his immense power. This is subdermal. It’s in my blood, an ember inside me catching flame.

“Ambrosia began as honey,” I begin, finally salting my fries. “Zeus asked all the creatures in the realms to surprise him with the most delicious food, and a bee provided her honey. Zeus lauded it as the best food to exist. He offered a prize to the bee for her laboring.”

Cross’s response is wry. “Let me guess, he tried to sleep with her.”

I laugh. “Probably. But she asked for a weapon, because her honey kept getting stolen and she was exhausted. Zeus, our beloved Cloud Gatherer,” I snort. “He was offended by her request. Enraged that so gentle a creature would crave violence. Nevertheless, he was bound by his word to reward her, so he granted her a stinger, a mighty weapon that would kill her the moment she used it.”

Cross huffs, unsurprised, as bitter as me. “Temperamental heathen our King of Gods.”

“Stop or he’ll put a snake in your bed.” I’m nagging. It feels nice. Normal almost.

Cross must enjoy it too, leaning onto the table to study me. “No, that’s Hera’s thing.”

He’s right. “Don’t speak ill of the Gods.”

“Don’t tempt me with sweet, unattainable things and expect me not to grow aggravated,” he returns, unflinching, gaze so focused on my mouth, I struggle to sit still.

Again, he goes for my hair, finger folding around a wind tangled strand caught in my hood. “What do Phoenix have to do with bees, professor?”

I wet my lips. “Everything. There’s no such thing as too good to be true. Not when you have the blood of the Greeks.” I clear my throat, hating this next part. “When a Phoenix dies, they lose their memories.”

His attention drops from my hair straight to his wrist, to the wretched band of ink. “The stinger,” he murmurs darkly, a darkness that’s worn over, encompassing and slow.

“They forget how old they are, how many times they’ve died, their own name, their families, until one day, they die without realizing it’s their last time and black flames rise.” I meet his gaze head on, handing him to key to my doom. “It’s the only reference I’ve ever read to such phenomena.”

“Why would a Phoenix kill Kadmos?” Cross muses. “They never fought.” He clicks his jaw, connecting the dots faster than I can explain. “Because they were too afraid to die and forget why they were even fighting.”

He scrubs a tired hand down his face. “They’d be an ideal weapon. Send them in to blow someone up, and even if they got captured, an interrogation would reveal nothing post death.”

“They’re creatures, not weapons,” I snap a little too harshly. “And it’s not so simple. The books say—” I stop.

I hear it.

Breaking across the scant feet between us.

“I’ll make you beg for me.” Frantic whispers from the intertwined couple to our left. She’s straddling him. He’s roughly gripping the back of her throat. His teeth flash against her cheek. “You’re going to scream my name as I fuck you. As I make you submit.”

21

Cross

Nyhavn Pub Sankt, Gade 28, 1314 Kobenhavn, Denmark

Leni can’t mask her reaction quick enough. She shrinks back and dips her head, straining to hear more of our tablemates.

The couple—fellow Brits, of course—halt their lewd proclamations to suck face.

Sixty-three seconds of spittle and moans before the man’s grunting over his sugar baby anew. “You’re gonna take it. I’m gonna fuck your face until you can’t move without thinking of me. You gonna cry for me? You gonna scream and bleed, baby?”

His date whimpers with the range of a Broadway star.

Leni withdraws from me, shoving air between our bodies to lean closer to the couple, to listen. Her expression is one of misery, eyes hooded, lips pressed, brows furrowed.

I expect disgust or fear from a princess. A firm chastising. But this princess has been working tirelessly to forfeit her virginity to a male she thought might be a monster. She’s resigned to be unhappy, to pain, and abuse.

I block out the semi-BDSM ramblings from a dude experiencing a midlife crisis and catch Leni’s fingertips. Assure her quietly, “It doesn’t have to be like that.”

“Like what?” she asks airily, brushing it off, picking at her fries.

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