Page 162 of Never Fall for an Angel

“Maybe that’s exactly why heshouldsee her,” Bob, Monica’s therapist boyfriend chimes.

Don’t get me wrong. Bob’s great. He’s the nicest guy I’ve ever met.

He’s just way too fucking chipper for my dark moods these days.

Everyone’s been on edge the last few weeks. Since Mila came home, Monica expects everyone to walk on eggshells. As if her daughter is seconds away from a nuclear meltdown.

I wouldn’t know.Again,I haven’t been allowed to see her.

“Bob,” Monica warns, and Bob holds up his hands to placate her.

“I’m just saying, it might give her something else to focus on other than what happened.”

I scrub a hand over my face, pushing back at the tiredness that threatens to take over. I barely sleep now. Not because I don’t have time—I’m just waiting around to see her—but because I can’t get it out of my head. The way she looked in that fucking hospital bed. Beaten and bruised black and blue. How fucking small she looked covered in all those fucking bandages.

“Let me see her,” I murmur, my voice rough with the need for sleep I won’t be getting. Not anytime soon. Every time I close my eyes, all I see is her, and I’m filled with fucking rage all over again.

I want to gut him. I want to skin him alive and hang him out in a field for birds to pick at until he’s nothing more than decay fertilizing the earth. Until there’s not a single ounce of him left on this godforsaken plant anymore.

Monica eyes me, her gaze worrisome.

I know what she’s thinking, and I get it. I also don’t care.

A door won’t stop me from seeing her.

A fuckingnukewon’t stop me from seeing her.

“Fine,” Monica agrees softly, wiping a stray tear that slips down her cheek. Bob rubs her back. “But don’t do anything to upset her. No lights. No asking how she’s feeling. None of that.”

The weight on my chest suddenly feels a thousand pounds heavier. I don’t stick around, instead, striding straight for that fucking door.

I hate that fucking door.

I knock once, receiving no answer, and slip inside.

It’s exactly as I thought it would be.

A fucking tomb.

The curtains are drawn tight, blocking out most of the LA sun outside. The room smells of old food and dirty sheets, and the silence is thick.

I step inside, shut the door behind me, and take in the small form nestled amongst the thick blankets in the center of the bed.

Mila doesn’t move when I enter, her back to me and her gaze trained on the wall in front of her. Monica said this is all she does, since she came home. Sleep or lay here.

I don’t bother with small talk; instead, I cross the room to where Monica just brought up the cup of broth, steaming on the nightstand, untouched.

I grab it, pulling up a chair in front of her, and finally, her soft grey eyes focus on me.

Fuck.

I’ve fucking missed her.

“You’re dying.”

She doesn’t say anything at first, simply blinking up at me as if she’s trying to decide if I’m real or fake and if she really cares about the answer.

“Good,” she whispers, closing her eyes.

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