Page 173 of Never Fall for an Angel

I move to slip from the bed, but he stops me with a shake of his head.

“Go to sleep, Mila.” His voice is cold, but there’s something there under the surface. Desire? Possessiveness? “I just came to check on you.”

He starts to head towards the hall, but a surge of panic wells in my chest. This strange desire to not see him so . . . un-Christian like. So human.

“Wait,” I breathe, slipping the blankets off my legs.

He pauses, his gaze slipping down to my bare thighs.

“Mila, I’m exhausted.” His shoulders are stiff underneath his shirt; his body is wrung tight.

“Lay with me.” I can’t believe it leaves my mouth, but I can’t deny the longing swirling through me to feel his skin against mine. To . . . comfort him. I know I’ll wake up not knowing how I feel about him in the morning, but in this light, his shadows have never called to me more.

Christian looks as surprised by my request as I am, and for a moment, he doesn’t move like he’s considering it.

Then, his jaw feathers with tension, and he looks away from me.

“Not tonight.”

I try to brush his rejection off. Something happened, and even if he won’t tell me about it, I can see it playing tug of war with him.

“Are you hurt?” I ask quietly.

He chuckles, and though it lacks its usual wickedness, it still sends a shiver up my spine. He steps across the room, stopping at the edge of the bed. His touch is soft when he brushes his knuckles down the side of my face and pauses when he reaches my chin. His thumb strokes over my skin, and he tilts my face up to look at him. In the moonlight outside, it’s easy to forget everything that’s happened to us. The bullet wound in his shoulder. The figurative one in my heart from where he left. His brother . . . It’s easy to forget we aren’t who we are instead of two people falling in love all over again.

Unfortunately, we are Christian and Mila. And this isn’t a love story.

“I’m fine, little devil,” he murmurs quietly, dropping his hand back to his side. “Get some sleep.”

He heads into the hallway, disappearing into the darkness and leaving nothing but his scent behind when he goes. I stare after him, listening to the sounds of his footsteps as he makes his way down the hall.

This Christian is different. Almost . . . broken. Exhausted. Filthy.

The battle of wills rages inside my head, rendering me frozen in place, still staring after him. Slowly, I sink back into the pillows, staring at the canopy above me and listening to the faucet drip in the bathroom, but I can’t ignore the ache in my chest.

On one hand, he asked me to leave him alone. On the other . . . he looked like he wanted to lay with me. He seemed so . . . desolate. Like a country field on the cold, foggy morning after the last battle of a war has been fought.

I glance back at the clock on my nightstand.

A little after three in the morning.

I look back at the canopy, my eyes running over the soft cream material.

I count each of Phantom’s breaths from where he fell asleep beside me.

“Fine.”

Carefully slipping from the bed, I pad over to the door and follow him out into the small living room off our room.

Christian may be the strongest man I’ve ever met, but I also know he’s not one who likes to share his weaknesses or his failures. He stews on them until they eat at him, and regardless of whether it was consensual or not, he’s still my husband in the most basic form of the word.

Something new and strange and tender blooms in my chest when I see him. He’s never looked so . . . human.

He lays on the chaise lounge, his boots dangling off the end. His shirt is gone, and his arms are tucked under his head. The hard ridges of his abs rise and fall with each breath like he hasn’t slept a single minute in the last three weeks.

Resigning myself, I step over to him and stoop down, gently removing his boots and setting them on the floor before I grab a throw from the back of the couch to throw over him. It will have to do.

I’m just draping it over him when his hand catches mine, startling me.

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