40. Leni

“Every time he touches me. I get a memory and it’s …”

Eviscerating.

Heartrending.

Tantalizing.

Jet black hair perfectly coiffed, Atlas adjusts the blanket draped across my lap, tucking it neatly at my waist before arranging it to cascade over the edge of the couch. “He never meant to hurt you,” he says as he flattens rises in the chenille.

“I think he did.” The memories are vivid and painful. I know exactly what Cross has done to me, or at least I have a very, very good guess. “I feel his hands grasping me too tight, squeezing, clamping down on me.”

“The curse is powerful, and he fought it ardently for—”

I cut him off. “I feel his teeth, and his mouth. He kisses me and it hurts.”

Atlas gently brushes the hair back from my face. He’s flawless. Ironed and sleek, and he smells like rosemary and cedar, with eyes the color of a deep cold lake, the darkest, stillest blue.

I nibble on the inside of my lip. “I think he might love me.”

A delicate arch of his midnight brow. “Isn’t that a good thing?”

“No.” Yes.

I don’t know.

I busy myself with a cup of tea, watching the steam rise in sweet curls from the calm amber surface. Atlas takes great, near alarming, pleasure in the proper ritual of tea brewing. A two-minute steep of English Breakfast, followed by a swirl of cream, a sugar square, and a sprig of salt for, according to Mr. Meticulous, a hint of complexity.

Tastes like bitter leaf soup to me, but I do enjoy the afternoon interlude from Cross’s intensity, from his piercing stares and the gravitational pull he seems to have on me.

For one hour each day, Atlas and I sip and soak in the ocean vista from the comfort of our porch while the beach slowly empties. It’s relaxing. Rejuvenating.

Plus, okay, the assorted shortbreads Atlas artfully arranges on the saucers are fucking irresistible.

“Why not?” Atlas asks, resting his spoon on the porcelain with a near silent clink.

“Because I’m not her. He loves Leni from before, and I’m not her. I don’t remember anything about her. Or me. Or us. He’s sticking around because he made a vow to protect a female that doesn’t exist anymore.”

Atlas smiles a secret, amused smile. “He does have a rather prudent sense of duty when it comes to you.”

I roll my eyes, as if Atlas isn’t the worst of them all. The entire Blackguard treat me like I’m their own special snowflake. Extra helpings, extra nice, extra threatening when a mortal cuts me in line. “Cross’s sense of duty is keeping me in the dark. He won’t tell me anything about who I was, except that I don’t like white.”

Atlas picks up a strand of my hair as evidence. “You don’t.”

“It’s boring.”

“Perhaps he’s not sharing so you can discover who you are for yourself, without the plague of a deranged prince hunting you and fear for your life?”

That’s exactly what I’m afraid of. “What if I do figure out who I am and I’m nothing like the female he loves? What then? We just go our separate ways?”

“Ahh…” Atlas sighs. “I see.”

“No, you don’t.”

“I do. You’re in love with my spymaster.” He leans back, sipping tea with his pinky up. “And now you fear losing him.”

I rattle my spoon against his fancy, comes-in-a-briefcase China and chomp a cookie in half.

He smiles. “Admit it.”

“Gods, you’re smug.” I scoff, adding another sugar cube to my cup. “At what ratio does tea with sugar become sugar with tea?”

“You’ve surpassed it,” he deadpans.

How does Cross drink this stuff? I frown, setting the cup aside. “It’s not just him who’d leave. You’d go. And Luke. And Sin. Everyone. I’d be all alone.”

Atlas smiles like my biggest fear is a great cosmic joke, and I steal a cookie from his plate.

“It doesn’t matter,” he returns calmly. “Learn who you are, little bird. The rest will sort itself.”

“I don’t want to be alone.”

Atlas sets down his tea, signaling serious business. “I can’t imagine he’d appreciate me telling you, but regardless of if you’re with my spymaster or not, I swore an oath to you. You protected those I love most, which means you’re as much Blackguard as the rest of us now.”

Relief floods me, soothing a worry I hadn’t fully acknowledged. A lump forms in my throat. A family of my own. A family that protects each other, loves and accepts one another. “Thank you.”

Atlas waves his hand dismissively. “Not that it matters because he’s never going to stop loving you.”

Before I can deny it, Atlas raises a hand so regally, I smother an urge to kiss his ring. “Why did you dye your hair?”

I furrow my brows. “Because I like blue? And I needed a change.”

“And you cut it and got bangs too. Why?”

“Hello? I died?” The only logical defense for micro-bangs. “And I slammed it into the car door that one time.”

“You had short blue bangs when we met,” Atlas informs, extra, double thick smug. “The same exact shade and length, if I recall. I bet the spymaster could name the color and brand.”

“But—”

“You hated tea then, too. Had a serious, slightly problematic sweet tooth. And you were never afraid to talk back to me.” He inclines his head at me. “New necklace?”

I fist the chain, gold with my name spelled out on gleaming disks. “I had a vision of it.” Of Draven ripping it off, of the chain cutting into my neck. “Cross bought me a replacement. Doesn’t it look the same?”

“Yours was a green-coated nightmare that broke under slight pressure.” He runs his gaze over the woven chain. “This is exquisite, a fine replica. Ever wonder how he got so close a match?”

Not from my description: necklace, yellow. “He remembered?” I defend lamely.

Atlas grants me a knowing smile. “He has the original, corroding away in his pocket.”

Tiny goosebumps rise on my arms as I recall every time Cross reaches for me only to shove a hand in his pocket.

“So what? Those are all coincidences.”

“Deny it for the rest of your existence, little bird, but it’d be easier for both you and your spymaster to accept that the Fates weave a single thread for each of us and only when the Gods intervene do those threads intertwine. The Gods see something in you, I think you ought to embrace it.”