19. Leni

Inever 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.

He mutters something in Danish as he peers back at me. No green in his eyes.

We veer down a bustling street, cutting between bicyclists braving snow slush. Swift movements guide me around the block until I’m overlooking the water. As if he knows it grounds me, wraps me in a protective fireproof blanket

The surface is calm, a shade darker than the gray sky. Beyond the ships docked, ducks bob in between patches of ice, beaks nestled into the curve of their wings. Behind us, steam rises from manholes and the distinct scents of sauteed garlic and roasted meat claw at the air.

Cold, it must be, without the curl of a Blackguard’s strength encasing you.

We have no destination, but we don’t wander. Don’t linger.

We’re in a hurry to go nowhere.

He’s relentless. Overbearing to the point that I don’t know if he’s trying to keep me safe or avoiding a spare second for us to see eye to eye and admit the truth. Once I disclose what I know, we’ll return to the same impossible situation. No reason not to return me to the palace.

It gnaws at me in small, jagged bites.

It’s more than a sufficient reason for me to let go of his hand. To bolt down a sketchy side street and take off.

I squeeze his hand tighter, tug him to slow. “We need to stop, please. My feet are killing me.”

His eyes flicker with concern and he cuts across the stone walk to help me sit on a wooden post, bulking ship’s ropes gathered at the base.

Slowly, his fingers work into the hood of my sweatshirt. Clothes procured by Lev. Zero style. A dingy gray sweat set, scratchy on my skin from overwashing.

The shoes are worse. Boots a size too small, and tied as loose as they are, they still rub blisters into my bones.

Cross tucks his fingers into my hair, delicately arranging it before pulling the dark hood up higher. “Keep this tucked,” he says, head bowed over mine. “It’s practically a calling card.”

“I can dye it.”

“No. I like the blue. It’s been in my head for a week now, this color. This shade. I could spot it across the entire continent.” His gaze shifts between mine almost desperately, as if waiting for me to blush or recoil.

He only spurs me forward. “You’re right. I don’t want to change it.”

“Good.” He keeps his voice low, slicing under the swash of city life. “I can hide anyone. Even blue.”

I believe him. “Shouldn’t we be in the woods or something?” I ask, stretching my toes. “Wearing full camo? Hiding properly?”

“Hiding implies somebody is seeking. Our intention is to go unnoticed, which is easier to achieve in a crowd.”

“Alright, but shouldn’t we at least wear black?”

That gets me a smile. “Suspicious. Better to wear exactly what everyone else does. Be one of many. A face in the crowd.”

“A face with blue hair,” I correct.

He pulls the scarf across my mouth and nose, lips twitching with amusement.

“What about a wig?” I ask.

“Don’t you dare change your hair now.” He wears a faint, teasing smile. “You’ve already marked my towels as yours. Unless those blue stains were someone else’s.”

“A hazard of style. Besides, I thought you wanted to share.” I lean into him. “I thought a spy should leave no hint behind, even in his home.”

Obsidian and steel eyes flash bright. “Do you have to use my own words against me? I’ve never had to defend my past self before.”

“Then maybe you ought to stop saying illogical things, like you can’t have a knickknack because you eavesdrop professionally.”

He can’t contain his grin. “Please, use the formal Shadow Daddy when you speak about my job.”

“Homicidal silhouette. I don’t care how long it takes to say it.”

He runs his finger along my scarf, nudges it down to see my smile. “Maybe I don’t want a knickknack?”

“I do,” I return, resolutely. “I want a hundred from a hundred places, tacky and neon. Game pieces and paperweights and little ships in bottles. I’ll have to dust them and cram them on the same buckling shelf, but when I look at one, I’ll remember exactly where I was when I got it.”

Cross’s smile fades as he searches my eyes, his brows drawing together. “A hundred knickknacks from a hundred places,” he repeats softly. “Your next exhilarating plan.”

Mine. Not his.

We continue walking, passing a history museum painted mustard yellow, flanked by vivid blue apartments and a mauve deli. Each building a slab of delicious color. Yaya would love it. We stroll down the port, absorbed in the city, the squawk of seagulls, the salt smell.

In another life, without the Queensguard and Draven chasing me, without the Blackguards curse, without favor and interrogation looming, I’d call this a date.

My first date. With easily the most attractive male I’ve ever met.

The chances of a first date in a snow-covered city with a male who leaves me feeling as clever as Athena and as strong as Artemis are ...

Moot.

Because this isn’t a date.

Still, I like it.

How he slows when my breath catches, how he steers me around puddles, bends on one knee to retie my boots, and anchors his arm around my waist to lift me off sore feet while we wait for the crosswalk signal to turn.

I like it more than three chocolate rice crispies and a dozen glazed donuts. I like it more than those spindles of wafer and hazelnut, which I suspect contain cocaine additives. I like it …

I just like it.

Cross points out statues and whispers their secrets to me. How the king of Denmark knows Nereids flood his waters, and that the Atlantides considered conquering Nyhavn, but the mortals were too friendly.

He enjoys history and I soak up every detail like a dehydrated sponge, ignoring the shard of sadness burrowing beneath my skin.

Who can Cross share his stories with?

He’s a fountain of information, an expert on so many things, and no one will ever realize it except for me.

I sink into him as we walk, ask who the bronze man on the horse is as if he’s Divine, marvel in the rare moments the sun peeks through the clouds.

I like it more than I know I should.