Page 21 of Under His Protection

"Guess Alex has told you I'm a bit of a mess? Or does he prefer to keep that part of me out of the charm-your-lover equation?"

I see the darkness in her eyes, the vulnerability lurking beneath her sharp exterior. She’s battling demons, a fight I know nothing about.

I inch closer, but not too close, careful not to spook her. “Do you want to tell me what happened?” I ask with a gentle nudge.

Michelle lets out a heavy sigh, the sound like a deflating balloon, sitting down again. “I’ve been clean for a while, but things got tough,” she says, her voice cracking. Her eyes dart around the room, a touch of fear in their depths. Her fingers, trembling, clutch the mug of tea. She shifts on the couch, her body rigid, as if bracing against a phantom punch.

“Tough, how?”

She runs a hand through her hair, tangling the strands further. “I slipped, okay? It’s none of your business,” she snaps, her gaze flitting towards the window.

She’s right. It’s none of my business.

“I tried to find Alex, but he’s gone,” she continues. “I didn’t know where else to go.”

I know that look. Her words are carefully chosen, each one a shield against her vulnerability. I can’t help but suspect there’s more to this story.

She falls silent, her gaze fixed on the floor. The silence stretches between us, taut like a rubber band. I watch her. I know she’s struggling.

“I’m here,” I say, “if you want to talk.” It’s a pathetic offer, a flimsy lifeline, but it’s all I can muster.

I have a gut feeling that she’s lying. My eyes dart to the black feather tucked in her hair as it catches the light. I stare at it, my mind filled with images of the Raven’s message: ‘I’ll come for what’s yours, Alexander.’

An icy determination settles in my gut. I need to protect Michelle, to shield her from harm. It’s like a primal instinct, an oath of loyalty to Alexander, a promise I can’t break, even though we’re not together anymore.

“You can stay here tonight,” I say. “But first, you need a shower. I’ll get you some clean clothes.”

Michelle nods. There’s a flicker of light in her tired eyes. I lead her to the bathroom, laying out a fresh towel and some of my clothes. We’re about the same size, although she’s skinnier. As the sound of running water fills the apartment, I take a moment to compose myself. Michelle is safe for now. But for how long?

The feather, now lying on the table, catches my eye. I stroke it. It feels cold and alien. This is going to be a long night.

I take a moment to gather myself.

Once Michelle is clean and dressed, she looks slightly better, but the fragility beneath the surface is still evident. I prepare the couch, adding pillows and a warm blanket. “You can sleep here,” I say, helping her get comfortable.

I sit in the kitchen staring at my phone, trying to stay awake but finding it hard. The phone buzzes, and a message from an unknown number flashes on the screen. I stare at it and swallow hard.

‘I’m watching you, and I must say, you look exquisite tonight. Both of you.’

The message hits me like a cold shower. The Raven? Can he see us? My fingers fly to the curtains, yanking them shut. The city lights outside suddenly feel like a million accusing eyes. My hand instinctively checks the locks on the door. Each click is a small victory against whatever is out there.

A thousand scenarios flash through my mind, each more terrifying than the last. I try to force myself to breathe, to calm down, but I’m feeling suffocated, closed in.

Michelle stirs in her sleep, her eyes darting open and shut, her face contorted in a silent scream.

“Don’t let him get me,” she whispers a panicked plea that jolts me. Her body, a tangle of limbs and shadows, twitches with a desperate energy. It’s not just the fear of an addict trying to stay clean. There’s something else, something deeper, that haunts her. It’s a primal fear that’s been etched into her soul.

Her face is pale, and her breath is shallow. I notice something lying near her hand: a faded photograph. I gently pick it up. It's a picture of a younger Michelle and Alexander. Their faces are beaming, but there's a hollowness in the scene that makes me ache. I can see a hint of the pain in Michelle's eyes, the same pain that is in her eyes now.

Michelle suddenly stirs, “Oh, shit,” she mutters, looking at me. Then she turns around and lies still.

That was close.

I put the picture back in her hand. With a final glance at the locked door, I settle into a chair nearby, my breath coming in short, shallow gasps. The night stretches out before me, a vast, dark ocean, and I’m adrift, clinging desperately to a tiny raft. The knife in my hand is glinting in the dim light. Don’t fall asleep, Ava.

The following day, the air in my place still smells like chamomile from the two mugs on the wooden coffee table. Sarah's homemade tea stash, gifted to me for my birthday, lingers in the air. I can hear Michelle's soft breaths from the living room. I pull on a pair of dark wash jeans, the fabric a comfortable contrast against my skin. I quickly tuck in a crisp white blouse, hoping the outfit will provide a little more security.

A note sits on the coffee table, a message scribbled in my neat handwriting: “You’re safe here. I’ll be back soon. Don’t leave the apartment.”

---