Page 71 of Never Fall for an Angel

She doesn’t respond, and I don’t look back, walking out into the night to go get a fucking wolf and bring him inside just so I can see her smile.

Mila doesn’t ask when I place him on a blanket near the fireplace, but I don’t miss the soft smile on her face when she turns away.

And that’s when I know I’d do anything to see it again.

Things go quiet online in the days that follow me stitching Mila’s hand. There are no signs of anyone actively looking for her, which means they’re hiding it, and I need to find out why.

Luckily, the weather keeps anyone from coming to the island for a few days, with the waves crashing over the path.

This also means that it’s just me and her stuck in the cottage with a wolf who looks at me like he wants to bite my dick off any time I come near her.

Mila dotes on the dog, naming him Phantom for the marks on his face and because, in her words, Christine should have chosen the Phantom.

Whatever the fuck that means.

It’s on our third day that tensions run high. I’m making lunch when Mila drops her hairbrush for the fourth time in the bathroom, letting out a string of expletives under her breath that would make even the most hardened criminals blush.

I can’t help but chuckle, turning the burner off to the stove and crossing over to the bathroom.

“Let me try.”

She glares at me in the mirror, tears shining in her eyes, but concedes, grabbing her hairbrush and handing it to me.

I step out into the living room, sinking into the couch and motioning for her to sit in front of me.

We haven’t touched each other since the other night, so she’s hesitant, wrapping her arms around her middle and stepping over in between my legs. I toss a pillow to the floor and motion for her to sit.

Carefully, she sinks down, pressing her back to the couch between my knees and drawing her legs up to her chest.

I brush her hair, smoothing the strands still wet from her shower while the wind howls outside the window, and begin to braid it.

“Did your mother teach you how to braid?” she asks softly, watching the fire crackle and pop in front of her.

“Learned for my sister,” I murmur without even thinking.

She’s quiet for a moment, processing what I’d said.

“How old is your sister?”

“Twenty-five,” I reply dryly, smoothing the soft strands of her hair down with my fingers. “Paulina couldn’t braid, and I knew someone had to learn to do it.”

“Are you related to June—I mean, Paulina?”

“My aunt,” I reply. “She moved in to help take care of us. Dad wasn’t around. Always working.”

“It’s nice that she was there after your mother . . .”

“Died?”

Mila’s silent.

“I was a handful,” I murmur. “Pretty reckless.”

She opens her mouth to speak. Probably to tell me that it wasn’t my fault, but she doesn’t.

“Did she ever have any children of her own?”

“No. As far as I know, she never wanted any and never married. She semi-adopted us to help our dad out, but I don’t think she ever planned on taking care of her sister’s kids.”

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