Page 92 of Creatures that Breathe

I pull her scarf across her mouth again, jerk her hood up, cover up those rosy lips, flushed cheeks, the blue hair.

“Is that your phone?”

“Not mine,” I growl, panic crawling up my throat. “We’re made.”

We’ve been set up.

22

Leni

I'm never seeing the ocean again

Escape seems about as possible as licking the sun and keeping your tastebuds.

As soon as Cross sends me through the door, dread slicks down my ribs, clogs up my lungs. It’s nothing compared to the piercing ice shards that follow.

A group of armed males forms a tight semi-circle around the pub’s entrance, dark, polished uniforms gleaming under golden streetlights. Not a mortal in sight. It’s an omen.

In front, where he thinks he belongs, a step closer, a brick higher, waits Draven resplendent in his finery, silks and hand threaded tailoring. A peacock, parading for the mortals cowering at the end of the street.

With a surge of panic, I throw myself into Cross. His grip on me is immediate, firm and protective, drawing me back until my heels are on the toes of his boots, my shoulders nestled into the folds of his jacket.

Draven smirks. He doesn’t mind the frigid mist. He stands sure and placating, hands folded in front of him, feet spread, tips of his camel leather loafers pointed out. An image of confidence and wealth, from the lone curl of his midnight cowlick to his tapered beard.

I used to think he was big and scary, but the solid mass of tense muscle at my back has opened my eyes. Now I see Draven’s puffy cheeks and bloated fingers, the gut he hides under gold buttons, his hunched posture only moderately reinforced by shoulder pads and a starched collar.

Unbidden, memories scratch against me, shredding open old wounds. Whispers of his plans to cage me, to pluck me apart and wear me. To be his accessory, silent and stunning, to be altered with his changing whims.

“Hello angel,” he purrs, blue eyes overly bright, fanatic, crazed. “I’ve been worried sick.”

Shivers split down my spine. I fight the unfamiliar urge to retaliate and instead focus on training. Run.

“Which way?” I ask Cross, unwilling to take my eyes off of Draven for a second. I lean back into the spymaster’s solid form, silently urging him to lead, trusting he’ll find the best, safest route. “As fast as we can,” I whisper.

Cross’s big hands are vise grips on my arms. He remains motionless. Doesn’t utter a word. Doesn’t give me any signal to read.

I shove back harder to knock him out of shock, boots slipping across the icy cobblestone. “Let’s go.”

Leave him. The command echoes in my mind. Leave him and run, it screams.

I’m too stubborn for that. I clutch blindly at him behind me, refusing to abandon him. “Quickly, Cross. Please.”

Our word. Our code.

“Oh, angel.” Draven’s sad tone mocks me, condescending and vicious. “Did you think you made a friend?”

Cross’s murmur comes broken and empty against my ear. “I’m so sorry, Leni.”

Regret spits black in my veins.

A scream wells up inside me, but it doesn’t find its way out of my lips.

A good opponent, Yaya said once, as she stripped my bed of teddy bears, will seize everything and make you believe you gave it before they end the game.

“I’m sorry,” Cross repeats in a quiet, anguished voice, and I realize that his hands are not supporting me, but holding me, pinning me. “Understand, this is the only way.”

He pries the scarf from my face, yanks my hood back.

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