Page 59 of Angel

“You’re beautiful,” I whisper, sweeping away another lock. This woman is physically and mentally affecting me like none other. It terrifies me. And nothing terrifies me anymore.

“Your hand is cold.”

Fuck. “I thought you were sleeping.”

“I was, but your hand could wake up Mr. Freeze.”

I smirk. “Did you just reference Batman?”

She rolls over, her cleavage peeking out from the sheet, and her piercing blue eyes stare right into me, causing my dick to twitch. Her hair falls to the pillow and the loose ends drop right between her tits. “If you let us, maybe we can actually become friends.” She smiles.

I don’t have friends. And she’s the last person I would want to be friends with. “Does that mean you forgive me?” She doesn’t answer, so I flip over, ignoring how uncomfortable this bed is.

“Can I ask you something?”

“You will anyway.” I smile, but it’s not like she can see me.

I turn, staring up at the ceiling, and concentrate on the nasty mold spot. I need something to distract me. We both lie there, focused on the uninteresting plaster above us. From the corner of my eye, I can see her small delicate hand resting on her stomach, the other behind her head.

“Why did you come with me that night at the bar?”

“What are you talking about?”

“That night with Mouse. Why did you come with me?” Yeah, I remember that night. I haven’t been able to not think about it. I didn’t want to leave her alone with Mouse. I shouldn’t have left her alone with him.

“Because thinking of him being alone with you, it… it fucking made my blood boil. Imagining his hands on you. Touching you. Touching what’s m—” I stop. “I just didn’t like it. And I was an idiot for leaving you.”

“Well, just so you know, I didn’t like him touching me. Not like how you touch me.” My heart skips. “Can I ask you another question?”

I clear my throat. “Sure, peach.”

“You called me beautiful. Before, and just a few minutes ago.” She says it with pain—pain I don’t understand.

“Yes, because you are beautiful.” I’m not sure what she’s trying to insinuate. Why is she confused over why someone would tell her she’s beautiful? Has she never looked at herself? Really looked at herself.

“But you say it like you mean it.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” I did mean it—I do mean it.

“No one has ever told me that before.” She pauses. “Never mind.” She goes to flip over. But I stop her, pulling her around, my hand clasped along her arm.

“I can’t believe for one second that no one has ever called you beautiful before.”

“Not the way you say it.” The room’s dark, but I can make out the image of her blue eyes and long lashes staring up at me like I just saved her. From what? I have no idea.

I take a deep breath and then sigh, as if I’m about to give this great speech. I should just leave well enough alone. “Angel, you are by far the most gorgeous woman I have ever seen. When you walk into a room, people stop what they’re doing to stare. You can bring a man to his knees with just one smile—a smile you can feel down to your core. One look at you, and it’s like a thousand flowers swaying in an open field, filling my insides with passion.” I stop only to study her face. Her mouth quivers, then she captures her bottom lip with her teeth. I keep going. “The way you carry yourself with such confidence, any woman would be jealous, filled with envy. Other women want to be you, and every man wants to be with you. I promise, when I say you’re beautiful, I fucking mean it.” A single tear falls from her eye, and I tighten my fist so I won’t reach up and swipe it away. Not able to bear it, I turn over, giving her my back. “Now, go to fucking sleep.”

In the softest voice I have ever heard coming from her, she says, “You’re wrong about me being confident. I’m the furthest thing from it. But thank you.”

It tears me apart to hear her say that. What kind of men has she been with? That they haven’t told her she was beautiful and meant it? And then I remember the double life she leads. Of course, she’s never had another man tell her she’s beautiful. An escort, a prostitute. Goddamn it, Angel, what are you doing to yourself?

I close my eyes, hoping like hell I’ll fall asleep this time, instead of doing something stupid. Like wrapping her up in my arms and pulling her against my body.

I’m numb. No pain. No emotion. The only thing I feel is relief as I sit there in a puddle of blood. Doesn’t that make me a monster?

He lies there—my foster father—in front of me. On the ground. Motionless and dead. I clench the knife tighter in my hands. The one I used to slit his throat. There’s no trembling. Nothing. No sadness. I’m glad he’s dead. It was either him or me, and I chose me. I chose, in that moment, when he was choking me to death, to survive. To take my life back.

I can still feel what cutting through his skin was like. The sounds he made as he bled out right before my eyes. The satisfaction that was nearly instantaneous when he gasped for air. Coughing. Falling to his death. To the ground. It was like I could breathe again…

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