Page 163 of Never Fall for an Angel

She’s weak. Four days without food or water will do that to you.

“Is that it, then?”

Her eyes spring open, and she glowers at me.

“Leave me alone, Christian.”

“I asked you a question, Mila.”

“Why are you here? I don’t want you here.”

Because there’s nowhere else I’d rather be than by your side.

“Answer the question. Do you want to die?”

I know I’m being harsh with her, but I know Mila. Maybe better than she knows herself. Monica tip-toeing around the elephant in the room isn’t helping. Mila needs someone to challenge her. She always has.

“And if I do?” she snaps, her voice scratchy from a lack of water.

Sitting forward, I slip my hand into the holster at my back, holding the pistol out to her. She stares at it for a moment, then at me, her gaze ping-ponging back and forth like she can’t fucking believe I’d actually give her a loaded gun.

I didn’t, of course. But this gives her the illusion of choice, even if it’s a false one.

“I don’t want that,” she whispers, a single tear slipping down her cheek and onto the pillow below.

“Then eat.”

She tries to glare at me, but it’s weak just like the rest of her.

“Your mother is this close to taking you back to the hospital.”

She doesn’t want to. I can see it in her eyes.

But . . . there’s also a desperation there. A desperation to stay as far away from the hospital as possible after nearly three weeks there.

I hold both the broth and the gun out to her.

She takes the broth.

I don’t help her sit up in bed, even though every one of my instincts is telling me to. She doesn’t want to be touched, and I can understand it. So, when she manages to rest against the headboard, breathing deeply through her nose as the room spins around her, I hand her the mug without even so much as a brush of my fingers.

“When was the last time you took a shower?”

“You’re welcome to leave if you think I smell,” she grumbles, swallowing some of the broth. I can’t explain the strange sense of relief that washes over me.

“I don’t really give a shit if you smell,” I murmur, shrugging my shoulders.

She says nothing, but her hands shake, holding the mug.

“It’s pretty dark in here,” I murmur. “There’s a world outside these walls, you know.”

“The world’s a fucked-up place. I’m a testament to that.”

“World’s not fucked up. There’s just fucked up people in it.”

She stares at me, studying my face for a long moment.

“Did my mother send you in here to con me into leaving my room?”

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