Page 26 of Under His Protection

Michelle leans into him, her body shaking. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Alex,” she says, her voice a low murmur. “Liar.”

Alexander chuckles a strained sound that hangs in the air between them. “You’re the liar,” he teases, pulling her in for another hug.

She looks up at him, releasing herself from the hug. "Do you think I'll ever get better?" she whispers, her voice cracking a little.

Alexander nods, his hand resting gently on her shoulder. He strokes her hair in a rhythmic pattern. "Yeah, of course you will." His voice is soft, and he leans in, his lips brushing against her forehead. "You're stronger than you think, sis. You've been through a lot, and you're going to get through this, too."

An overwhelming sense of displacement washes over me. My stomach twists with a knot, a desperate need to escape. They need to be alone. I turn, and my steps are quick and silent. I feel like I’m invading a private moment not meant for me.

I quickly slip on my jacket, grab my phone and keys, and disappear into the hallway without looking back.

They don’t notice me until I’m out the door.

“Wait,” Alexander calls out. “Ava, wait.”

But I don’t stop. Tears burn in my eyes, threatening to spill, but I push them back. My feelings for him are so strong, so raw, they threaten to eat me alive.

“He drove my parents into the grave,” I whisper, a mantra against my feelings for him that threaten to break me. I have to get away from him, or else I’ll be swallowed whole.

The scent of incense and sandalwood washes over me as I reach for Sarah’s door. I knock, the sound a tiny tremor in the empty hallway. The door opens, and there she is, my best friend, a shelter in this storm-ridden night. Her eyes are a bright emerald green with a comforting light in them.

“Hey, you,” she says, her voice soothing. Come on in. You look like you need a hug and then a test run in my new dryer.”

The air inside smells like lavender oil and burning incense. A mountain of self-help books sits precariously on a bookshelf beside her yoga mat and weights. The space is a kaleidoscope of calm and order. I love being here.

I step inside, swallowing hard, my throat constricted by the raw emotions building all day. “It’s just—” I begin, but the words catch in my throat.

Sarah knows. She always knows. She pulls me towards the couch. Her touch is a gentle anchor. “It’s okay,” she says, her voice a soft murmur, stroking my hair. “You don’t have to say anything. Just be here.”

I sink into the soft cushions, surrendering to the warmth that radiates from her. I close my eyes, my body exhausted and filled with a million unanswered questions. I drift off to sleep, the world’s weight lifted, if only for a moment.

Chapter 11

The Unraveled

I groan, stretching out on the couch, my muscles protesting the cramped sleep. Sarah’s apartment is a shoebox—maybe even tinier than mine. The rain hasn’t stopped, and her place feels like a damp, claustrophobic cave. Is that coffee I smell?

“Rain Haven or Port Haven?” I mutter as I peek down on the wet asphalt.

My tongue twists around the words, trying to find a way to make them sound less like a tourist trap and more like a place where the sky perpetually weeps.

I stumble to my feet, my movements stiff and sluggish. The world seems tilting slightly, and I’m surprised I don’t topple over.

I head toward the kitchen, drawn by the sound of chatter. Who’s here?

Last night’s events, a jumbled mess of Alexander, Michelle, and the threats of the Raven, flash before my eyes. It’s like a rapid-fire slideshow I can’t control, but I shove it back into the recesses of my mind, tucking it away in my brain’s pocket.

Sarah’s long, red hair, always a bit messy, bounces as she dances around the kitchen.

“Morning,” I say in a hoarse voice.

“Mornin’ sunshine,” Sarah says, her voice bright. She throws her head back and lets out an infectious laugh, filling the tiny kitchen with a vibrancy that feels almost out of place on a day like this.

She leans in and plants a kiss on Gilbert’s lips, a playful grin spreading across her face. He's perched on a stool at the kitchen counter, a mug of coffee warming his hands. His cheeks flush a rosy pink, his shy smile widening as she pokes his nose. He looks like a deer caught in headlights. He glances at her, his gaze full of a tenderness that makes her smile. His brown eyes, peeking out from behind his thick glasses, twinkle with a quiet joy.

The kitchen, however, is anything but serene. It's a chaotic mix of mismatched mugs and overflowing fruit bowls, with stacks of books precariously perched on every available surface. A half-eaten bag of chips rests abandoned on the counter. It's messy, but it's also strangely comforting.

It’s a strange but undeniable connection between my best friend and Gilbert Grapeton. I find myself watching them, a bit fascinated. There’s a spark between them, a playful energy that makes me remember a time when I felt that way, a time when the world felt full of possibility.

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