15. Leni

Better Alone. Words to live by, to survive by. I trace the angry ink etched down my chest in the fogged mirror while I adjust my necklace stack to fit inside the B. Blotchy patches of pink dot my torso, bruises on their way to healing.

Gone but never forgotten.

I tug the waistband of Cross’s sweatpants up, and slip on the soft black cotton shirt. Sniff it.

Soap. Nothing.

Cross.

Draven smells like apples.

Fat red apples plucked and sliced from Vinia’s trees. Sweet. Watery. Revolting.

The same scent I got from the Gorgon blood. Fruity, faint.

Information on Gorgons is thin and conflicting, even in the king’s own marginalia, because the first Gorgon, Medusa, was mortal, and cursed into a creature.

Not unlike Cross.

Medusa was more than just a survivor, she was a protector. Mother of Pegasus and Chrysaor, first in the Gorgon line, she ensured none of her family would ever be prey. The snake hair faded with age, but the poison never did, and while no modern Gorgons are making stone statues, they can freeze attackers in the middle of battle with just a single drop of spilled blood.

It’s all in the scent.

The theories differ on the scent’s nature. Some estimate it’s simply your favorite smell or a strong emotional memory. A few assume, in order to be effective, it must be the essence of your Fated, but the one I’ve read most is that the scent reflects who you’ll spend your life with. A sister, a child, a lover.

A captor.

My heart chucks itself at my chest, pounding against those words: Better. Alone.

Enough procrastinating. I have to guarantee that Draven will not be my future.

In the bedroom, a breakfast tray has gone cold. I wipe a line of syrup off the plate and set it gently on my tongue before sealing it in, letting it seep over my tastebuds, like it’s a fresh drop from the River Lethe about to cleanse me of every Draven related memory.

I’m starving.

Rich slants of afternoon sun warm the narrow wood floors and sugar scents the air, creating a happy haze, and yet Cross’s bedroom exudes a hollowness, as if it’s not quite home.

Voices clash in the hall, low, angry. I startle, knocking the syrup decanter into the valley of strawberries. “No,” I mutter, fumbling to fix it, using waffles like sponges, licking my fingers.

The door opens. I spin, cheeks ablaze.

“A fork?” Cross asks as he kicks the door shut. “Which step of the Great Plan involves eating me?”

Whipped cream dissolves into a puddle of golden goo. “I would’ve preferred a knife, but it seems hostages aren’t privy to slicing their food.”

“Leni, if you wish for me to cut your drowning waffles, say the word. But if you’re thinking of killing me, knives are in the top drawer. Left side.” He nods at the dresser. “The fork will just piss me off.”

He scrubs at the start of dark scruff on his jaw.

He’s different. Tired, as if our time apart was years for him and mere hours for me. Sunken, purple under-eyes, red on his lip, hair messy, like he’s been pulling it. Again.

Even the bands on his wrists seem dull.

“And you’re not a hostage,” he adds.

“You locked the door and left me without so much as a book for entertainment.”

“Didn’t you hear some asshole broke the bathroom lock? I was trying to give you some privacy.” He stalks to the dresser, opens the bottom drawer, and sets a red deck of cards on top. “Entertainment. I figured you’d snoop.”

Nope!Too busy alternating the shower spray from hot to cold to hot to stop associating him with warm wet skin, like your run-of-the-mill depraved training exercise. “I didn’t.”

He fits the card stack between his thumb and middle finger, a comfortable, I-know-cards gesture, and fans the suits. “For the best, I suppose. There’s only so many games of solitaire the body can withstand.”

Spoken like he’s tried. “That’s when you play the variations,” I tell him. “Pyramid, Four Seasons, Gate, Aces Up, Fourteen Out.”

“Variations.” He snaps the deck shut. “You like cards?”

“I enjoy strategy.”

“But exclusively single player?” His mouth kicks up at the side. “Let me guess, no opponent matches up to you.”

It’s flattering.

And wrong. I never beat Yaya. “I had no one to play with,” I admit, keeping my chin. “I grew up … not alone, but alone. Always surrounded, never actually involved.” No one wanted to talk to—much less go a couple rounds of Euchre—with Draven’s fiancée. Too afraid to offend him or convinced I was insane for marrying him. As if Kadmos hadn’t preordained the union with Yaya herself, back when she’d believed they’d win the war.

Cross’s response is a dry, “Right.” And then his teeth are terrorizing his lip anew and the cards are split, stacked, and released.

Rain begins to patter lightly outside, and the sunbeams dim and slowly wash out.

The silence is deafening.

The five feet between us feel as wide as the Sahara. As daunting.

“—you didn’t eat.”

“—is this really your room?”

We speak at the same time and he takes pity on me. “Odd thing to lie about.”

“There’s nothing personal.” Bed, nightstands. It’s short one cheap robe and a room service menu from being a tier two hotel room.

“I’m in espionage.”

“Even here? Isn’t it just the Blackguard? They know you.”

“Do they?” A rough laugh. He rubs a hand down his face, and removes the divide between us, surveys the famed Syrup Disaster of ’91.

His confession tears me to shreds, his bitterness like lemon on a fresh cut. The constant loneliness … it’s more than one person could bear.

“I really wish you’d eat,” he rasps. “It’d take something off my mind.”

“Only if you do too.”

“Me?” He seems surprised, and it’s a blow straight to the chest that no one’s ever worried for him.

“You,” I echo softly, ignoring the big, rotating Quit Procrastinating lights flashing in my head. “You need strength too, right? And isn’t this an ‘eat when you can’ moment? No one’s attacking. There’s food. Excellent company. Cards.”

After we eat, then. That’s when I’ll ask him. I select the most saturated waffle and nibble. Sugar ecstasy.

Cross exhales like a weight’s lifted off his chest.

Heat tumbles off him in small, swirling eddies, blowing hot air on my skin as he rescues a floating strawberry and eats it, sucking juice and syrup off the pad of his thumb.

What happens next is wonderful … terrible.

We eat. Cross sticking to the least drenched of the berries, me picking up waffle slack. Somehow we get closer, invisible strings pulling us together, until I’m half resting against him, watching the window. My hair dries with a Cross imprint, and his arm snakes under mine, his hand caught onto my waist, palm flat, fingers sunk under the cotton.

The rain outside falls harder, obscuring the cute narrow street into a hazy gray blur. I sink into the steady rise and fall of his chest on my back and the tickle of his breath in my hair. Now, he smells like strawberries, clean and fresh.

“Leni,” Cross murmurs, his lips brushing my temple.

I make a small noise of protest, not quite ready to break this spell we’ve woven between us. His arm constricts around me slightly in response.

“You could’ve run,” he says. “You should’ve run.”

The deep timbre of his voice resonates through me, his last attempt to terminate the plan. That can’t happen. “I didn’t.”

I feel his nod, the tender brush of his fingers in my hair, before he steps back, wipes his palms down his jeans and puts half the room between us. “You like games. Let’s play a game. A question for a question. Honest answers.”

An echo of potent energy thrums around him, heaping heat into the room, without shadows.

“You’re … suddenly playful?”

His brows shoot up in surprise. “It’ll be fun. We’ll play until all questions become answers.”

Does he know?

He can’t.

Nerves trickle down my back like ice, spreading a shiver. I fold my arms. “Okay. How do I win? What are the rules? Are there time constraints? Who determines the level of honesty? What topics will we cover? How many passes do we get? Will it really be fun?”

He scrubs a hand over his face, and I flash a smug little smile, saying. “You should’ve known I wouldn’t blindly accept your premise without discussing it.”

He bites his lip, not to torture, but to hide a smile. “No passes, complete honesty and let’s allow rules to form naturally.”

“‘No lying’ should be a rule.”

“Excellent example.”

I cock my hip, arch an eyebrow. Peak procrastination. It’s a sickness and I can’t stop. “And how do I win?”

“There is no losing, pyro. We both gain an increased sense of understanding.”

Bright twittering lights go off in my head. Information? Yes! What’s the curse? Who killed the king if you didn’t? Am I the only one who knows your name?

Do you have a type?

Is it blue hair, zero commitment, traitors to the crown?

I could write a book: Secrets of the Lost Blackguard. The Condition of the Spymaster. How to Master the Curse-Life Balance.

My hearts racing, questions percolating on my tongue when I see The Flaw. Question for question.

He’s willing to answer if I do. My palms sweat. “So, you’re curious about me, huh?”

“Is that your first question?”

“No.” I sit on the bed, drying my hands on the gray linen comforter. “I don’t have any questions. I want clothing.” Projecting confidence, I lean back on my hands and cross my legs. “I answer a question and you take something off. That’s the game.”

The less I know, the better. A safer path. No chance to admire, no place for affection.

The better off we’ll both be. Guilt will drown me, he said.

And the more I get to know him, the less certain I am about what must be done. Fear of losing my drive prickles at the back of my mind like an unwelcome guest. Each new detail about the Blackguard worsens my already tangled feelings. It’s time to stop pulling at that thread.

Cross considers my offer and my resolve and nods. “Fine. But you have to stay on your side of the room.” He points at the bed.

“Why?”

“Because I’m riled right now, and barely holding on and if you get close to me—” He cuts himself off. “Do you want clothes or questions?”

I want to know exactly what happens when I get close to him. But it doesn’t matter. “Clothes.”

“Alright.” A swallow works down his throat. “We’ll start easy. How did you find me?”

“Are these all going to be repeats? I told you, I looked. It wasn’t that hard.” I nod at his chest. “Shirt.”

“I decide,” he grits, reaching for a single black boot. “And that’s not the whole answer. Complete honesty.”

“It’s the only answer I’ve got. People love to gossip, and you and your team of murderers, oh, they make excellent fodder. They love to discuss how far you’ve fallen, what despots you’ve become, how they’ll punish you if you ever dare return.”

“Punishment.” He makes it sound as farfetched as a Giant uprising.

I lift a shoulder and let it drop. “There were other whispers too, like who’s the best in bed? Lev or Rune.”

“Neither.”

I furrow my brow at him. “What? You know from experience?”

On his cheeks, two punches of delicious red appear. “Lev’s hairy all over and Rune has a belt clip for his phone.”

Note to self: make Cross jealous and defensive at every available opportunity. “As I was saying, I’ve heard it all. Sightings, local unrest, killings. I made my own assumptions for the rest. You likely weren’t doubling back to blown locations, but you stick to creature heavy cities. I knew you had tattoos that were distinct, so staying somewhere cold would help hide them.”

“Impressive.”

I give a violent shake of my head. “Not really. The guards considered me a vapid twit, too stupid to do anything other than sit still and look pretty. They all but handed you over on a platter.”

He searches my gaze. “Your humility is misplaced, pyro. No matter what they knew, they never found me. Never put together the pieces like you. I’m wondering how you convinced them you weren’t dangerous.”

Pyro is a nickname now? I love it as much as I hate it. The real kicker? He’d casually complimented me again. Twice.

“You grew up with guards?” he asks.

“No.”

His gaze flicks across the room. “You just said—”

“No, as in, I won’t answer until …” If looks could shred polyblend, he’d be naked.

He toes off his other boot and sends it jumbling into the wall. Waits.

“There were guards, but they weren’t mine. They were for the family I lived with.” Technically true. If they were my guards, they’d have listened to me, not tried to kill me.

He takes off a slim silver watch. Flattens it on the dresser. Rubs his temple. Sighs. “I can’t tell if you’re deliberately guiding me to questions or if I’ve just completely surrendered to my fascination with you.”

A nervous breath swells in my lungs, lingering there until my heart stops pounding. “Is that a question?”

Another pause. As if he’s considering the ramifications of discovering that I’m not leading him anywhere. That his interest in me—interest!—is his own.

When he speaks next, his voice is a great deal lower. “Why do you want to fuck me?”

I don’t hesitate. “Take off your shirt and I’ll count out six firm reasons.” I’m smiling. Grinning more like. This is it. Cards on the table. “I want you to ruin me, Cross.”

His jaw clenches. “Having sex doesn’t ruin you. You’re not an flower getting its petals plucked.”

The huskiness of his voice sends fresh shivers hurtling down my spine. “So you don’t want to … pluck me?” I ask.

His unwavering gaze singes me, teasing in delicious, untouched places. With confident, sensual movements, he closes the distance between us, as if unable to stay away. Stops directly in front of me, smelling faintly of strawberries. “No, Leni. I want to worship you.”

Oh.

Well … Gods, his obsidian eyes put the night sky to shame. “How progressive of you. Too bad not everyone agrees.”

“So, someone’s forcing you to do this?” His gaze holds mine as he traces a finger over my pendants.

I can’t move. I don’t want to move. Plan, no plan, I fight the urge to beg him to kiss me.

“No. This is my choice,” I say, watching his throat work a hard swallow.

His teeth saw, and then he’s across the room again, tearing at his lip, shoulders bunched and pacing. “Why me? Why ask me when there are thousands who would take a sword to the gut to share air with you?”

“Are you feeling burdened? Do you want me to replace you?” Deflecting is a second language.

“You’re not the one asking questions.”

“Maybe I’ll find a male who isn’t afraid to kiss me.”

“You need to stop provoking me, Leni,” he snarls, hands in tight fists. “You won’t like what happens if I give you what you want.”

I will.

Oh Sweet Hera, I will.

Nothing easy, Yaya said.

Maybe I’m doing this wrong because being with Cross feels so fucking easy. For me.

Although, apparently not for him. He’s tense, pacing in just his socks but pounding the floor, angry, but not at me, judging by the fresh split on his lip.

A sharp jab niggles my ribs. “I asked you because you’re a phantom. Because creatures are terrified of the ruthless spymaster, and because you’d be a challenge to find. A game for me to analyze and peel apart, and I wanted to win more than I’d like to admit. I wanted to feel capable and prove to everyone who caged me and sold me that they were wrong. I’m not weak or helpless. I’m not stupid.”

Cross’s temper ruptures, breaths coming fast, black curls spiraling between his fingers. “Who caged you?” he demands, “Who sold you?”

Oops.

I blanch, swallow back the tightness in my throat. “You want complete honesty? I thought you’d be heartless. Every bit the king killer I was told you are. I figured you’d be a monster.”

“Who. Leni.”

I ignore him. “The thing is, I’m not afraid of monsters. Sometimes you need a monster on your side to win.”

Cross seethes in my admission. Lets depthless silence cocoon us. But I can’t take it back. Not after seeing him gut Odren and step over the body to claim me. He’s every bit a monster. Powerful and violent, a friend to the darkness.

And I’d probably still desire him, if that were all he was.

But he’s also a hero.

A lasting golden thread of the Kingsguard pollutes his blood. Urges him to protect and safeguard. Leave bloodshed as a last resort. Give creatures a chance.

And it makes me want more with him. More time. More dirty alleyways and coffee shop stalking. More breakfasts watching the rain. My heart gives an uncontrollable thud, heat licks against the back of my eyes.

Cross stares at me for a considerable amount of time, waiting for me to go on, and I can tell all he wants to ask is who? over and over.

He doesn’t know it, but the hero in him would protect the who. Draven’s one of the good guys—air quotes—one of the king’s own. It’s not just Kadmos’s mark on Cross’s chest, it’s Draven’s too.

Finally, Cross asks, “Why not white?”

Cue sigh of relief.

I stand, needing to move, to scurry out of the way like I’ve just performed a hit and run on a school bus, and end up catching my reflection in the window.

Black shirt, soft, thinner than the pants, just as oversized. My necklaces are knotted and greening from soap scum, my hair’s dry and loose on my shoulders, pathetically straight. I’m pretty sure that’s mascara smudged to my ears.

Draven would have a field day.

I turn away quickly, afraid his words might sink nails into my mind, fear instantly fading under Cross’s undivided attention, the slash of his storm black gaze, white teeth sunk into his lip.

The realm could end and he’d go on feasting on the shape of me in his clothes. He wouldn’t blink.

My body goes hot. “White is a clean slate, an empty canvas waiting to be filled.”

Draven dressed me in white.

Once again, Cross’s long legs eat up the distance between us. He leans a hand flat against the glass behind me and twirls a strand of my hair with the other, breath ghosting my face. Hot mint with sugar. “And why blue?”

Duh. “It’s not white.”

Dark eyes dart to mine. This close, the luxurious green is visible, opening up to me like a secret forest to explore.

“Not white.” He’s cheating now, wringing answers from me with a brush of his thumb on my cheek.

My chest tightens. “Blue is freedom. It’s discovery. It’s the sea and the sky. It’s endless possibility.” I crane my neck back to look up at him and he’s locked onto me, fingers playing idly, hovering. Eyes flashing like shards of ice in a storm. Fracturing at the edges.

It’s insane, how the words linger between us, how my gaze drips from those eyes—those crushing eyes—to his mouth, to the corner he’s sank teeth into and how just seeing that hard, punishing bite reminds me of his arms locked around me on the dock, his hand around my nape against the wall, solid and insistent as he licked at me—

“That’s six,” I breathe. “You owe me six pieces of clothing.”

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