Page 21 of As Angels Sin

I don’t have anything to say.

“Go. Now. I’ll stay on the line with you until you’ve got your answer.”

“Fine. You win.” I’m not happy about it.

“Of course, I win. I always do” Simone doesn’t have to be in the room for me to see her cheeky smile and playful wink.

“I’m putting my phone on the counter. I won’t be able to hear you.” Mainly because I can’t stand the idea of Simone making jokes while I pee over three pieces of plastic.

I take all three with me to the toilet and knock them all out in one go. A silly thought comes to mind, of all three showing a different answer. One positive, one negative and the other just a question mark as if to saywhat the fuck is inside you?That makes me chuckle and loosen up enough to get through the process without embarrassment.

After I finish, I drop all three into the sink and wait for the timers to run out. There’s a knock at my door.

Oh no, not now.

Just leave me alone to wallow by myself.

I grab my phone and whisper to Simone. “Gotta run. I’ll let you know what the results are.” I kill the call before she can answer me. I rush back to my bed, after grabbing the bathroom key and locking the door behind me. Between the first set of knocks and the second, I slip back under the covers, shifting restlessly as if I’d just woken up.

“Who is it?” I groan. There is no answer.

“Come in, then.” It’s an invitation that is open to anyone in the house, except Tomas.

The door opens and goosebumps instantly dart across my flesh when I see who’s standing outside. Crue Amos is the last person I thought I’d see today.

Did his bloodhound nose pick up the scent of my potential pregnancy the last time he was here? Is that another trait that some mad scientist imbued him with in the lab where Crue was cooked?

“What are you doing here?” I don’t mean in my room. I expected Crue would make another appearance, soon enough. Once he gets a taste of me, it’s impossible to get rid of him. That thought both upsets me — under the current circumstances — and excites me.

My question stems more from the fact that he’s in mydoorwayinstead of at my window. It means he is in the house, being allowed to walk around freely.Is he another addition to Father’s menagerie?I wonder. Like Tomas before him. Tomas, who has taken a room in the mansion ever since our engagement.

“I just had a chat with your dad. He sent me to call you.” His reply is neat, clean and to the point. Hearing it sucks more than I thought it would.

But Crue’s entering the room and closing the door behind him quickly changes those feelings. Nothing is everto the pointwithCrue. I can never tell what’s really happening inside his head until it’s too late.

“Locking me in here is calling me?” I raise a brow. He hasn’t locked anything, but it’s the intention behind the words rather than the facts.

He takes long strides to reach the bed and sits at my feet, ignoring the question. One of his hands immediately finds a place on my calf, and he strokes it gently through the blanket.

“Is everything okay?” It’s hazardous to ask, given the look on his face. The last time I saw that look; he stabbed a needle into my neck and left me naked in an alleyway.

“No,” his eyes are fixed on the floor to ceiling mirror next to the bathroom door. He’s looking at me through it, unable to make direct eye contact.

Is that sincerity I hear?

I gulp, not sure if I’m supposed to feel afraid or upset. At least the indecision takes my mind off the impending doom lying in my bathroom’s basin.

“What does Father want?” Idle conversation might still both our moods.

“Beats me. Something’s going on with that guy,” Crue’s eyes narrow in the mirror. He notices I’m staring right back, and he softens his stiffening features.

“Wanna hear something funny?”

I nod. Trying to read him before was hard, when he was a stalker tailing me through the city. Now? It’s impossible. His face flickers so many different responses that I can’t say what his emotional state is. Happy? No smile, but a gentle gaze. Sad? No frown, but a somber tone. Angry? Crue’s mood seems neutral, and something tells me he wouldn’t be say “something funny”, if he was angry.

Asking has never been his style, either. He takes and dishes out with no care or consequence.

“Your dad asked me to watch over you.” He makes zero effort to explain why it’s funny. Not even a half-assed fake chuckle to go with his words. All the same, they strike a chord in my brain that makes me laugh. Harder than I have laughed in months. A frantic explosion of joyous bellowing explodes from me, until my sides start to hurt.

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