36. Leni

The handsy one, Cross, tries to help. He tells me where I am, what’s happened, who the males on their knees are. He uses words like remember and friends and safe and I pull myself into a ball in the warm, smoking ash, press my hands over my ears.

My head aches, like my mind is endlessly expanding into jagged walls. Tears distort the males circling me, and I squeeze my eyes shut to block them out, block everything out.

Return to the numbness I woke up in.

I don’t know Upstate New York or Blackguard or Kingsguard or whatever he and his scary finds call themselves.

I have no knowledge of a prince.

Panic clenches my lungs, constricts, seeps into my very skin, suffocating and corrosive. Hot tears track down my face, sobs scrape their way up my throat.

Cross halts his futile attempts at explanation and gestures toward the males and one female around me. They bear the unmistakable marks of war, weary limbs, injuries, faces etched with horror.

The massive blonde one is on the brink of his own death. Shuddering, sweat-drenched, his abdomen riddled with holes.

The one in a crimson speckled suit—Atlas, Cross informs me—stands out in the sea of ash and smoke. A large chuck of his jacket is missing—burned right off—but he smooths it against his pecs like it’s a frayed thread as he talks into a flat shiny phone, ordering cars, making demands, exuding competence.

We hike through the wasteland, united, side by side under the ash gray sky. As night descends and cold sweeps in, a small shadow begins to follow me, a ball of black that emits warmth like a fire.

The others avoid it, fanning out, four stalking off to lead, four dropping back to follow. The handsy male stays within my reach.

Maybe the rest have had enough heat for the day. I move close to my warmer, focusing on how my little black friend rolls over hills and leaps valleys. The distraction helps me hold on to the numb feeling.

Eventually, the ash becomes dead leaves and those transform into rain slick pavement. I climb into the black SUV when Cross asks. I buckle and try to relax because everyone else does.

When I close my eyes, I still feel the sear of burning. It’s alive. Tearing through me, snapping across my skin with sharp, vicious teeth. It worsens when I attempt to remember something. Leaves me gasping for reprieve.

Cross stops me. His voice is firm and low, like the dark, starless sky outside the windows. “Don’t think about it now. Don’t do too much today.”

I flinch when he puts the top of his hand to my forehead. I jolt when he checks my fingers for bruises. Shut my eyes when he asks me how he can help.

It’s a constant battle to keep my mind centered, to not reach into my memories for echoes of his depthless voice, the familiar graze of rough hands, or the intense look of those eyes. Hammered gray, streaked with onyx, edged with the smallest hints of green.

It’s impossible.

I find it all. Let it slam into me, wave after crashing wave. Messy and bloody and violent. I wince when he offers me water.

He stops touching me then. Stops talking to me. A hard edge creeps into his gaze, and the grind of his teeth rivals the thrum of the car’s engine.

Worry begins to feast on me with tiny sharp teeth.

Cross knows what I am.

Pain flares beneath my left clavicle. Phantom pain from a past life, drowning me in a memory of receiving a small flame tattoo accompanied by a warning in my own voice.

Do not tell anyone what you are. They will use you. Shatter you.

It opens a floodgate of voices I don’t recognize, threatening to destroy me. The memories slice me up, sear over my skin, hurt me without leaving marks. I think the only way to get free might be to scream, but invisible hands choke me, stop the sound.

Black explodes in the car. I shoot forward in my seat, smash into my seatbelt. Tires squeal, the driver swears.

And then, for a fraction of a second, I’m warm, all is quiet, and everything is better.

Then I pass out.

We end up at a hotel in Boston. It’s a city that smells like sea and wet asphalt, and I don’t know if I’ve visited before, but the others seem so familiar, I must have.

The tall warrior with purple eyes and a Divine untouchable beauty asks Cross if he needs help with me.

I set an icy stare on the both of them. “I don’t need any help.”

Cross halts immediately, as if he can sense my distress, holds up his hands in a peaceful gesture. His voice is smooth and deep, his eyes a mesmerizing ripple of black and silver. “Please, it would make me—us all feel better if I helped get you settled in the room.”

“Why? You’re all hurt.” I gesture at the warriors scattered around the lobby, mortals outwardly gaping at them, running and pointing, as if Hades himself has risen from the Underworld, then wave a hand down myself. “I’m the only one who’s fine.”

He winces. Shuts his eyes like he’s been slapped.

I don’t understand why.

I am fine.

There’s not a sliver of red on my skin. Not a bruise or blister.

Meanwhile, his pants are soaked in crimson and wounds criss cross the lines of his bare chest. Burns and blisters cover his hands and arms, the slants of his face.

A swell of intense concern pops in my chest. He needs medical care. He needs creams and ointments and poultices. He needs help. Not me.

“You’re the one who’s bleeding,” I point out.

Did they lose their battle? Did we?

I can’t imagine any of them failing. Powerful, capable, massive. And the way Cross looks at me, like he’d sooner cut out his own heart than let me suffer, has to mean he’d never allow himself to lose.

I reach into the recesses of my mind for answers and a whimper leaks from my lips, pain a tornado up my spine, roaring, scorching.

Cross catches me in his arms before I collapse. “Please, love. You’ve got to stop trying to remember. I’ll share everything with you, but first I need you to rest, yes?” His mouth curves into a faint, scornful smile.

I hesitate, torn between suspicion and sympathy.

Ultimately, his gentle gaze captures me against reason, and I’m powerless to resist, nodding, allowing myself to be carried into the elevator by the promise of rest and answers, and the secrets of this male.

He enters the hotel room first. Swift and precise, he inspects the small armoire, searches under the neatly made bed, checks lampshades, and double locks the windows.

Either he’s paranoid or we’re in trouble. I’m too exhausted to ask which, unsure if one will make me feel better, if my death eliminated a threat or invigorated it.

Regardless, I’m a killer now.

Those were bones melting in the ashes.

With his checks done, Cross extends a hand toward me. I stare at it for a moment before taking it, bracing for a dark memory to slash me.

None come, and I sigh in relief.

“I requested connecting rooms because I thought you might need some time alone,” he explains gently, voice curling around me. “But if you don’t …”

“I do,” I blurt, pulling my hand from his. As my declaration settles in the air, my stomach turns, as if it can sense a hint of dishonesty lingering beneath it.

Part of me does want to be alone with this male.

Posture guarded, Cross buries his hands deep in his pockets. “Do you remember anything else? Have any immediate questions?”

The silence is tense. “Well.” I clear my throat, and somewhat stiffly, settle on the edge of the bed, smooth my palm over the white duvet. “I remember my name. And you’re Cross.”

“You remember me?” He sounds hopeful, as if he’s been anticipating this moment.

He steps forward, but I’m already backtracking at the idea that this intense, capable male could have interest in me. Me. “You told me it, remember?”

“Right.” He halts like I’ve thrown up a fresh wall of flame. “But you don’t remember me from before.”

I can’t tell if it’s a question.

He’s so cautious around me, so tentative, uncomfortable, more so than the others, that it makes me wonder what he’s done to me. If I’d even want to remember.

“Is it the missing tattoos?” I ask. “Is that why you look at me like that, like I’m wrong, or have I done something to you? Do you not like me? Do we not get along?”

He watches me, teeth perched on the swell of his lip, eyes heated. A muscle ticks in his jaw, his entire torso flexes under the scabs and wounds.

“Cross?”

“It’s your hair,” he finally relents, pinning his gaze to the floor. “It’s different. I like you very much, Leni, and you’ve done nothing wrong, it’s just different.” When his eyes tip back to mine, they’re glassy, his teeth are clenched. “I’ll get used to it,” he promises darkly. “Any other questions?”

“Are we in danger?”

“You are safe,” he assures me firmly, almost threateningly. “I’ll make sure of it. But we have to remain cautious. The Blackguard killed a prince today. We’ll be hunted for that offense, more than usual.”

The prince. “Draven.” I don’t need to dig deep to find memories of him. They live close to the surface. Draven tearing my hair from my skull, Draven slapping me, scaring me, screaming at me. I jut my chin up at Cross. “I’m glad he’s dead. I hope he died slowly.”

“I hope it was quick and painless,” Cross returns softly. “For no sympathy to him. You died to kill him though, and the thought of your slow death drives ice into my veins.”

A sharp jolt of pain shoots through my arm as memories flood back, the sensations of a cold blade hacking through my arm. I can almost taste the metallic tang of blood on my lips, feel the weight of strong hands supporting me as I’m kissed by split, crimson lips.

He kisses me with desperation and devotion.

Like I’m his life.

Like he needs only me to survive.

I love you, cracks from my mouth as the knife scrapes bone.

It’s an act of sacrifice. I stabbed myself while kissing him. Him. The male here in my room.

Why else would I do it but to remember him?

A sudden alarming thought occurs. “Are you my husband?”

He goes still, responds in a gentle, near melancholy tone, “I would like to be. Someday. But I am not. You are not mine.”

A sense of unease washes over me, alongside little flares of disappointment and … relief.

Forgetting the love of my life, I can’t imagine a worse fate. Even if that love were this male doused in blood, limping, striving to protect me.

Especially if.

He’s healing quickly, clear skin replacing the burns, and it’s simultaneously alarming and comforting to realize he’s handsome. Arresting. Intense. Powerful.

The black in his eyes seems to permanently rage, and he chews on his lips like they’ve done him wrong, but oddly enough, the low tone of his voice brings me comfort. As do the shadows forever curling around his fingers.

And he’s adapted to me already, knows precisely when his nearness will scare me, and lives at the boundary, as close as he can without pushing me, like we’ve been molded together by Prometheus himself, shaped to move as one.

Why can’t I remember more about him? Frustration bubbles through my blood and I berate myself for procrastinating until the last possible moment to commit his face and touch to memory.

“Then we should probably …” I wring my hands. “We should have separate rooms.”

“Yes,” he agrees. “Why don’t you shower, and I’ll stand guard.” He’s suddenly content to engage in something other than look at me, checking the peephole, throwing the lock, swiping at a thin black phone. “Atlas will come watch while I sew myself up. He’s feeling quite guilty.”

I tilt my head, quiet, absorbing every scrap of information. Atlas is the neat, bossy one with stunning tipped ears. “What did he do?”

“He took you away from me once,” Cross informs, fire back in his eyes. “He didn’t trust you. He went against my wishes.”

“Sounds like he owes you then. Not me.”

“Protecting you is my price.” A pause. “I’ll get you some clothes.”

“Yes. Anything.”

He rubs the back of his neck. “Not white. You don’t like wearing white.”

He would know, wouldn’t he? This male I supposedly love would know my likes and dislikes.

A male who owned me would control what colors I wore. “White is okay. It doesn’t bother me. At least, not anymore.”

His jaw clenches, he’ll be out of teeth by tomorrow. “Right. That’s good, I guess. Leni?”

I know how to answer to my own name.

“If you need anything,” he says, his tone softer now. “Don’t bottle it up. I’m waiting to be asked. Wake me up in the middle of the night, cut me off. I’ll never lie to you. You saved my family today. You saved the people I love most. And before that, you saved me. You have my life, however you wish to use it.”

My heart starts to pound.

Yes. I believe I could love this male. “Cross?”

“Yes?”

“What I did today? You can’t tell anyone. Under any circumstances.” He’s not my husband, he could spill my secrets, unveil a Phoenix. He’d be a hero for it.

“No matter how this unfolds, Leni,” he declares harshly. “I’ll never allow another soul to know. You have my most sacred vow.”