Page 97 of Creatures that Breathe

One night turns into two and then three, a week since my plunge, hours since Draven reiterated his kindness, and I shouldn’t be cowering and crying. I should be planning an escape.

But every time I close my eyes, I see a certain spymaster. See his phone sinking in beer fizz, hear him promising to protect me, feel his grip caging me, the tremor in his voice as he apologizes to me.

Betrayal burns low and steady in my chest, a raw cut that keeps me furious.

I’m so sorry.

I told him who Draven was, what he’d do to me, and the Blackguard still tossed me away, like an old muffin wrapper.

I focus on that, the anger, to block out the way he screamed my name, like his heart was being ripped out, like I was the one doing it.

I do my best to ignore the insane feeling of guilt low in my stomach, and allow a numb chill to seep into my bones.

For decades, the center of Yaya’s research was to understand why our kind survived. She’d explained to me over quartered grapes and apple juice that mortals unwittingly selected their partners for species continuation.

Our kind have low birth rates, limited lifespans, obvious physical markers.

So why then, do we continue to drip down bloodlines, undiluted despite being hunted, and persecuted and used? We should have died out centuries ago.

I was six when Yaya first referenced memetics. She’d been feeling good, clear minded, adorned in her beloved vintage Chanel blazer, running shorts and gladiator sandals—shoes were always a sign she was lucid. She explained to me, point blank, that we are a virus. We lure victims in with our beauty and essentially force propagation.

Draven wants a perfect, blissfully beautiful wife, who’s innocent in all things, that he gets to fuck and ruin and make his little toy.

Fuck that.

I’m giving him a virus. I’ll drive him mad, make him sick, make him retch and beg to the Gods for relief.

I’ll never wash the blue out of my hair. I’ll snap my nails into claws as fast as they grow. I’ll sleep in a filthy heap on the floor and hiss every time he greets me.

I will ruin him.

Cross gave me to Draven like a lamb to slaughter. Just like Yaya and my father. Just like the King.

No more.

Through his betrayal, Cross has given me teeth and claws. He’s sent barbs into my heart, unwittingly bolstered it. I’m getting out of this. Alive, no matter the pain it costs me.

The door creaks open and silent as night, a maid slips inside. She’s missing the usual signs of Draven’s employ. No black eye or bruises, no red-rimmed, puffy eyes.

I steel for her flash of pity, for the sad concern the maids have for Draven’s bride, prepared to coax away her worries, assure her she’s safe here if she needs a moment to herself.

It doesn’t come.

“Master wishes to speak with you,” she says, blunt, dry.

“Please send my apologies, but my schedule is crammed full today, no room for master’s wishes. Too much to do. Wedding prep and all.” I tear a hole in the train of my dress. Smile brightly. “Perfect.”

Lips in a flat unamused line, she leans back on the door to scrutinize me, boots silent on the hard cement floor. Still no pity in her gaze. Her curly dark hair cascades around beautiful almond eyes, and she wears a cream apron tied tightly at her waist, but her skirts are longer than the other maids, dangling past her knees, and I get the sense she won’t last long here.

Either it’s her first day on the job or Draven has failed to break her spirit.

I’d guess the latter from the way she looks at me and rolls her eyes. “Aren’t princesses supposed to be pretty and dainty?” she asks, wrinkling her nose. “You look like you live in an ashtray.”

I do my best to curtsy. “Draven specified I remain pristine.”

She arches a dark feathered brow. Judging. “The little prince knows you’re protecting someone. Tell me what he wants to know or I’ll make you suffer.”

If she’s a maid, I’m a Kingsguard. “I’ll suffer either way.”

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