Page 80 of Never Fall for an Angel

“What am I supposed to do with her? Braid each other’s hair and sing campfire songs?”

Paulina shrugs. “You could start with getting the girl some actual clothes. She can’t live in your sweats and giant T-shirts for the remainder of her days.”

Fuck. I like my clothes on her, though.

Paulina places her hand on my shoulder, and I grit my teeth, brushing a thumb over my lips.

“If you want her tostay, then you’ve got to give her a reason.”

“Who says I want her to stay?”

She smirks, pursing her lips.

“No one had to.”

My phone buzzes, and I pull it out of my pocket. A sick sense of joy passes through me at the number on the screen.

“If you’ll excuse me. I have to take this.”

Paulina smiles, heading toward the door.

“Think about what I said.”

“Will do.”

Once she’s gone, I answer the phone, raising it to my ear. Mila smiles, and something in my chest burns hot and unpleasant in the bullet wound in my chest. I rub the spot, a plan weaving its way together in my mind.

“Hello?”

“It’s done.”

Click

I can’t help but smile to myself, knowing what’s coming. Seconds later, there’s a ping on my laptop, and I click on the incoming email, reading over the information.

And then I laugh.

I fucking laugh because if I don’t, I’ll fucking shoot someone, and Collin’s looking like the perfect target right now.

How could I have been so naïve? Letting her run the way she did. Letting her get out of my sight?

I was a fool to think she’d actually do it. That she hadn’t been forced by some unknown hand.

Mila Carpenter is made with sunshine, whiskey, and that little bit of heroin that keeps you coming back for more.

She’d never hurt a fly . . .

Unless, of course, she thought she was saving its life in the end.

Pictures of that night flashed through my mind. The scars on her skin when I bathed her. How completely fucking demented the carvings are. Like the tattered and charred edges of humanity clinging to someone’s soul.

If I let myself think about it,reallyfucking think about it, I can’t contain the emotions swirling in my chest.

I can’t explain the feeling in the pit of my stomach. Rage. Bleeding, simmering, all-consuming rage that makes my hands shake, and my teeth clench to the point I worry they might shatter in my mouth.

I should have fucking been there, and then this wouldn’t have happened.

I’ve always known it was my fault. Now I have the fucking proof.

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