Page 20 of Under His Protection

It’s Michelle, alright, but not precisely the Michelle I know from pictures. Her eyes are wide with a desperate, haunted look. Her hair is a tangled mess, and a black feather, caught in the hallway light, sits nestled in the strands. An icy finger traces a path across my skin. That feather makes cold fear grip my gut.

"Michelle? What are you doing here?" I gasp, urging her inside. My hand instinctively reaches for the knife on the counter, but I quickly shove it under a crumpled newspaper. Don't be stupid, Ava. I gesture for her to enter and quickly check the hallway for intruders.

She stumbles into my apartment, her clothes tattered and stained, her skin pale and clammy. The air around her is heavy with the scent of fear and something vaguely metallic. It reminds me of the warehouse down at the docks, Alexander’s world.

“How did you find me? Do you know who I am?”

I follow her as she walks into my apartment, and I can’t help but scrunch up my nose. She smells like a potent blend of dirt, sweat, and stale cigarettes. It’s a harsh, almost overwhelming scent.

“Alexander’s emergency contact: Ava Parker,” she rasps, her voice hoarse and strained. “It was all through the files back at Rockford. He’ll fuckin’ kill me if he knew I used it.”

Her language is—unfiltered. This is nothing like the carefully constructed image of Alexander’s sister I’ve built in my mind.

This woman seems raw, vulnerable, and desperate. It’s a glimpse of the truth I’ve always sensed—Alexander’s world is brutal. And here I am, in the middle of it.

This world is all about survival.

My fingers instinctively reach out, hesitantly touching the black feather nestled in her hair. It feels oddly warm beneath my fingertips.

“What the hell are you doin’?” She says and swats my hand away.

I pull my hand back like I’ve been burnt on the fire. “Sorry – it’s just that— What’s that?”

She chuckles a hollow, brittle sound that echoes in my apartment. “Oh, some rundown guy on the street gave me a feather,” she says, her eyes flickering towards the door. “It was hilarious.”

Who gave her a black feather? Who the hell gives black feathers? I know the answer, but I don’t want to face it.

Michelle doesn’t wait for permission, just walks deeper into my apartment, a fragile ghost in the low light. I watch her. What have I gotten myself into? Bile rises in my throat as I try to coax her to my sofa, quickly shoving an old blanket onto it before she slumps down, her frame collapsing onto the cushions.

“You — you look like you just wrestled a bear and lost,” I say, trying to inject humor into whatever this situation is. “Sit down. I’ll make you some tea. Chamomile. It’s supposed to be good for calming the nerves.”

“Yeah, sure. Okay there, Ava Parker, tea-mo-mile,” she smiles, her eyes are distant, empty.

I head toward the kitchen, the movement a clumsy attempt to regain some semblance of control. I can hear Michelle sink deeper into the couch, her body shuddering with a silent tremor.

“I couldn’t find Alex,” she murmurs. “I didn’t know where else to go. It’s not like I planned to come to bother you. Sorry ’bout that.”

Well, I’m not going to send her away.

I return with a steaming mug of Sarah’s homemade tea and another blanket. The scent of chamomile and lavender lingers in the air, helping to calm me down just a fraction.

“Here, drink this,” I say, placing the mug in her trembling hands and draping the blanket around her shoulders.

“How many blankets do you have in the place exactly?”

Michelle takes a tentative sip, her intense blue eyes flickering around the room, taking in the blankets and pillows. They must look out of place in the world she’s been living in. Her long dark hair, a tangled mess, frames her face. She does have a point. My place is very—fluffy.

“Thanks, Ava Parker,” she says. “This place—makes me feel like a fuckin’ princess.”

We sit in silence for a while. My eyelids feel heavy, the city lights outside my window blurring into a mess.

"I called and texted Alexander, but he's not answering," I say, watching her get up and pace. "I hope he'll be here soon."

"Fuckin' great, here I am, and he's gone," Michelle mutters.

"He went out looking for you," I say.

"Oh, shit," she snaps, stopping abruptly. "You know, I slipped up. I started using again." She glances at me, a flicker of something in her eyes— defiance? A plea for understanding?

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