Page 97 of Never Fall for an Angel

Christian pauses on the stairs when I don’t move from my place on the sidewalk. To be honest, the old brick building on the outskirts of Seattle looks abandoned from the outside, but he takes my hand in his, pulling me up the stairs anyway.

We haven’t spoken since we left the island an hour ago, and to be honest, being out in the open is terrifying, even if the neighborhood around us is calm and quiet.

“I have something to show you.”

“You sure you’re not leading me in here to murder me?” I taunt, but it lacks its usual enthusiasm after that hell storm that was my latest nightmare. I want to tell him about it, but . . . I also don’t. I want to move on and forget any of it ever happened, but I can’t.

Christian punches in another code to a big metal door and pulls it open, letting me slip inside.

Contrary to the outside, the inside is alive and bustling with activity. People mill about the long hallway of what looks like an old school, and chatter can be heard from the rooms on either side.

“What is this place?” I ask quietly as he leads me through the crowds. People stop to stare, mostly at him, in awe. It’s as if he’s a god, come down to grant wishes to the peasants.

“This, little devil,” he murmurs, pulling me closer to his side, his hand tightening around mine, “Was my work.”

My skin warms when he touches me. This feels . . . intimate.Toointimate, but I don’t pull away.

“Your work?” I cock a brow at him, confused, and he nods, stopping by a woman surrounded by people. She’s older, and you can tell she runs things by how everyone is crowded around her, asking her questions.

“Well, tomorrow, you’ve got the bathroom on the second floor,” she tells a young woman who groans. “Don’t think I won’t check.”

“Fine,” the woman huffs, then her eyes land on Christian.

I know that look.

. . . I don’t like that look.

She looks at him like he’s her hero, and I feel guilty for the bitter jealousy that creeps up on me.

“I didn’t think you’d show up here,” the woman says, pushing her hair back from her face.

She’s beautiful. Striking red hair and pretty freckles on her nose. Her brown eyes are soft and warm as if she knows him.

“Kelly . . . If that’s what you’re still going by,” Christian greets, giving her a nod. He doesn’t release my hand, even when I try to slip back. “This is my wife, Mila.”

What aliar.

I hold my hand out, but she doesn’t take it, so I let it fall awkwardly to my side.

“Nice to meet you, Mila,” she says, and I feel another pang of guilt for the disappointment in her voice. “And it’s Lindsay, actually,” she corrects Christian.

“Nice to see you’re sticking to your real name,” Christian says just as the busy woman finally turns to us.

“Haven’t seen you in a while.” Then, her gaze turns to me. “Special case?”

“My wife,” Christian lies. “Mila.”

I roll my eyes at his use ofmy wifeand hold out my hand again. This woman shakes it, and I think it finally clicks for me what this place is.

“Finally. It’s about time,” she chuckles, offering me a soft smile. “She’s beautiful,” she tells Christian, who smirks. “Names Pat,” she explains. “This is my house, and these are my girls.”

“Pat runs the rehabilitation center,” Christian explains quietly in my ear. “Girls come here after they’re removed from whatever situation they were in, and she helps them get back on their feet.”

“This is your job?”

“Was,” Christian corrects. “Pat’s been here as long as I can remember.”

“She’ll just make you clean toilets,” Lindsay complains quietly.

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