Page 199 of Never Fall for an Angel

“Jesus Christ,” he grunts, pulling me into the shower. “No more arguing naked. It’s not fair.”

“Does that mean I get to help?” A rush of triumph slides through me.

But . . . he doesn’t answer.

“Turn around,” he murmurs gruffly, grabbing the shampoo. “Let me wash your hair.”

By week four, postI love you, Christian and I are comfortable and this marriageactuallyfeels like a marriage for once.

Like today, when I brought him lunch to the office in the family’s lodge because I knew he would be meeting with a friend.

I don’t know what it’s about, but he ushers me out with a swat to my ass before I can ask, so I concede to bother him about it later.

I’m just starting off down the stairs when a cry stops me dead in my tracks.

“Help!”

The cry is muffled, but I jerk my head up on the stairs, pausing to listen.

“Help!”

There’s no one around, so I dart back up the stairs, walking quickly towards whoever yelled.

“Hello?” I call out, but no one answers, save for one drawn-out cry for help.

Fuck. Where’s an adult when you need one?

I look down at the wedding ring on my hand.

Oh, right. I’m an adult.

Worst decision I’ve ever made.

I follow the cries towards a hallway off to the left, a wing I’ve never been in, and slow my pace. At the end of the hall sits a closed door, and the cries are coming from that room.

What if it’s a trap?

What if it’s not, and someone needs help?

I groan aloud. Why couldn’t I have just ignored it? I would take fourteen of Paulina’s grapefruit over this, any day.

Pushing the door open, the room is dark, save for a single lamp in the corner. The light casts shadows around the room, showcasing a human-sized lump in the center of a large, four-post bed.

A man stares back at me like something out of a horror film. His skin is sunken, his hair thin and stripped of color. His arms are covered in bruises, and machines line the walls, keeping him alive. He doesn’t say anything, and neither do I, so we both stay locked in our eerie staring contest.

Slowly, he reaches out a decrepit hand, beckoning for me to come closer.

I don’t want to. Ireallydon’t want to, but I do, stepping through the dimly lit room and pausing at the side of his bed.

It smells . . . like death in this room.

His eyes rake over my face, up to my hair, and down to the wedding ring on my finger.

Oh my God . . . this is Christian’s father.

“Are you okay?” I ask, my voice shaking. “I-I heard you yelling for help.”

Still, no response.

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