37. Cross

Leni only wants Atlas. She remembers him.

Specifically, she remembers the sound of her fist connecting with his nose and his immediate, earnest apology.

The two of them perched on her bed stirs turmoil within me—pictures painted in red wash across my mind. My leader’s blood pooling on the floor, my knees wet with it, my chin balanced on Leni’s knee, begging for forgiveness.

Envy.

I embrace it within me. I’ll let this jealousy devour me piece by piece, gnawing like a beast with a bone. I’ll feed it parts of me until there’s nothing left but the heart that belongs to her.

Atlas is uncharacteristically gentle with her, and it leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. Their bond is a thorn in my chest, pushing deeper with every shared look, every quiet, intimate moment.

He’s like I’ve never seen, patient and kind. He treats her as though she’s his salvation, not mine.

Sick, demonic ideas puncture me.

What if the old Leni was my soulmate?

What if this Leni is his?

“Do you have any memory of what this tattoo represents?” he asks, handing her my sketch of the palace, its sandstone walls curved like they had across her skin.

They sit close. Closer than she allows anyone else, knees brushing.

Atlas’s shirtsleeves are rolled neatly to his elbows and buttoned. Strange, how when he’s calm like this, the dual lines banding his throat shimmer like promises instead of debts.

I can hardly bear to look at Leni for fear she’ll set vacant eyes on me.

Or worse, wary eyes.

Gleaming silver hair cascades down her shoulders. No bangs, no tattoos, no colorful make-up. She wears a simple white robe, tied snugly at her waist.

Based on her stringent avoidance of the door, and insistence on studying the plain cream wall directly in front of her, she knows I’m here. Resents me for being unable to leave her.

I will, I tell myself every quarter hour.

I will leave when she asks. I will.

Until she explicitly asks, I will savor every fleeting glance and attempt insufferably to patch the holes in my heart.

“Do you remember why you got a tattoo of the palace?” Atlas asks.

Leni’s hand instinctively goes to where the tattoo used to be on her elbow.

“It was a warning,” she says. Despite the blank face and distant gaze, I spot a miniscule tremor in her hand—an unsaid confession of the pain hidden beneath layers of bravado. “It reminded me to never return.” Her gaze jumps over me in favor of Atlas. “Draven was there, he—” she twists her head into shoulder, wincing in pain, a whine in her throat—

“That’s enough,” I snap, instantly standing before her, obnoxious and insufferable, snatching the sketch from Atlas. “We’re done for today.”

“Let her decide,” Atlas replies curtly, unwilling to lend me any of his newfound patience.

“It’s hurting her,” I grate out, voice harsher than intended.

Two days ago, I couldn’t protect her, but today, now. I will. Every day for the rest of my existence, I will act as her shield.

Leni recoils at my nearness, shrinking back like a scared animal.

I bite my lip until I taste copper. Eyes burning, throat like a sandstorm, I give space to the woman I love. Shove a greedy hand into my pocket.

Calm down.

I’m not doing this right. I’m not saying anything right, and I want—I need—to get it right.

“She asked to try,” Atlas reminds me.

“She wanted to try for you!” I roar, control finally snapping. “She’s doing it for you, because you asked. This is exactly what she feared most—becoming a hollow shell consumed by pain. Continuously dredging it up is not good for her.”

Feeling like she’s slipping through my fingers, I redirect my attention to Leni, a croak filtering into my voice at the pain etched on her face. “You need to build new memories, Leni. Happy ones. Ones that aren’t the worst fucking parts of your life. Please.”

Leni watches us, monitoring, assessing. It’s eerie how similar she is to her former self, determining how to best navigate the situation, how to win.

It gives me this terrible hope that she’s in there, that there’s color and sarcasm and wit and Leni, my Leni in there.

I’m hers.

Against curses and Fates, under one vicious God or many, I am eternally hers. She has an unbreakable hold on me, soothing and strangling.

At last, she sighs, fixating on a point over my right shoulder, afraid to meet my eyes. “I don’t know where to begin with any of that.”

My heart burns at the mousy whisper of her voice, but it’s better than feeling my heart shatter when she convulses under a memory.

Her scent drifts toward me—honeysuckle sweetness with a crisp freshness. Bright, like her.

“I don’t …” she starts, then stops herself, muttering something I can’t quite hear. She turns to Atlas. “It couldn’t hurt,” she whispers to him. “Maybe we could …” she breaks off again, touching her neck, wincing.

I ball my hands into fists to keep from forcefully turning her face towards mine. “The beach,” I rasp, “You always talked about the beach. Let me take you,” I offer, broken, resigning myself to her denial. “Please, let me show you something else. Let me give you better. Please.”

Leni doesn’t look away from Atlas when she lightly lifts her shoulders, tilts her head in the way she used to. “He did say please.”