Page 7 of Under His Protection

Still, my fingers fly across the keyboard, searching for any information about The Raven. But the search results are frustratingly thin. I click on a random link, a website for a local opera company. A picture of a sleek, dark-haired figure with piercing blue eyes stares back at me. His features seem eerily familiar. A strange, unsettling feeling creeps into my gut. But that's all I get. There's no more information. Nothing else online for me.

I’ll need to talk to someone instead, and I know exactly who. I need to be careful, though. The last time I tried to dig into the underworld, things went bad, very bad.

I lay eyes on a small, white envelope on my desk, its edges slightly frayed.

Where did that come from? It wasn’t here this morning.

I pick it up, my fingers tracing the smooth surface. It’s unsealed, the contents visible. A sentence is written in a neat, cursive script: “Mark is not who you think he is.”

My heart stutters, and I bite my lip. My intuition screams that this is not a joke, not a prank. It’s a threat or a warning. Mark? Dorthea’s boy toy?

The knock on my door is soft, almost apologetic. I look up, startled, to see Cole standing in the doorway. A hesitant shuffle replaces his usual confident swagger. His hands fidget, twisting the fabric of his shirt.

I make sure to stuff the envelope under a pile of papers discreetly.

“Can we talk?” he asks, his voice a low murmur.

I sigh, my gaze returning to the screen. “Talk?” I say, my voice flat, uninterested.

“I want to apologize,” he says.

Great, my boss is apologizing for almost raping me a year ago. I scoff; the irony of the situation hit me with a wave of bitter amusement.

“Fuck off, Cole,” I hiss.

“I don’t expect you to forgive me,” he says, his shoulders slumped, his eyes downcast.

“The hell I won’t,” I say, my voice hardening. “You sexually assaulted me. You’re lucky to have a job still.”

He shuffles around the room, trying to choose whether to look at me or run out of the office. Instead, he stops. “I’m in therapy, Ava. Trying to get better,” he says, his voice hesitant.

“Sure–”

“My therapist told me to make amends— or try to— some things are — unforgivable, I know–” he says, his voice trailing off.

“She’s a smart woman,” I snap, my gaze fixed back on my screen.

“Hey, I know this might be a lot, and I don’t want to make you uncomfortable. I’m just here to offer you some help if you need it.” His voice is sincere, but it’s also laced with an undercurrent of something else—

“Help?” I say sarcastically. “You’re the one who—” I stop myself, my jaw clenching. I don’t want to get into it, not with him.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” I say, my tone curt.

He looks taken aback. “I didn’t mean—”

He opens his mouth to respond, but I cut him off. "Don't try to be my savior, Cole. I'm not going to be your redemption project. Now, please just leave." My voice is firm, leaving no room for argument.

He smooths down his white shirt, a nervous gesture I've noticed before. His hand twitches towards his tie, but he stops himself. He looks as if he’s about to say something else, but instead, he sighs and turns away. People are staring at me, and then their eyes drift to Cole. Their eyes carry looks of pity.

Am I supposed to feel bad about asking him to leave? His visit leaves a bitter taste on my tongue. Instead, I close my office door, the click of the lock a satisfying sound.

I look down at my phone, searching for a message from Alexander. There’s nothing. I type out a message: ‘You promised me honesty.’

A few moments later, his reply appears: ‘About what?’

I type: ‘Your family.’

‘It’s not always about honesty, Ava. Sometimes it’s about survival. Let’s talk later. I’ll explain.’

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