Page 65 of Never Fall for an Angel

“About what?”

I swallow hard past the lump in my throat.

“Nothing.”

Before he can say anything else and my skin can melt off from the embarrassment because I can’t stop picturing him between my legs, I make a mad dash to the bedroom, wet nipples and water in hand, and hide out under the covers.

My God . . . living under Christian Cross’s roof is turning out to be more complicated than I thought.

I need to get out of here.

MILA

Phantom . . .” I call softly, slipping into the greenhouse. Today’s been quiet. Unsubstantial. No new visitors have arrived, and Christian and I have barely spoken. I’m honestly glad. After dinner the other night, I’m not sure what we’d say to each other that wouldn’t just leave me feeling pissed off and used all over again.

After force-feeding me eggs and toast for breakfast, Christian disappeared into the lighthouse as he has every day for the past week, leaving me alone in the cottage. By evening, I snuck out as I always do and made my way to take care of Phantom.

I named him Phantom for the white around his eyes, making him appear almost ghostlike.

—And because the markings in his fur remind me of the Phantom of the Opera.

Luckily, with Christian holed up in his little mancave, I’ve been able to sneak out of the cottage and come out to the greenhouse to care for him.

He never lets me get too close, growling at me from the moment I enter, but he does let me feed him whatever I can scrounge up from inside.

Today, he’s lying on his side when I enter, and though I can see he’s breathing, the fact that he doesn’t immediately raise his head and growl at me fills my stomach with dread.

“Hey, buddy . . .” Cautiously, I drop to my knees beside him. “You okay?”

He doesn’t lift his head, his breathing shallow. He whimpers, and I hover over him, searching for what might have caused his distress.

“You were just growling at me yesterday. What’s wrong?”

He doesn’t answer, but I look him over, checking his ears without touching him, then glancing at the few teeth I can see.

Then, I see his paw and the dried blood caked to his pad.

“Okay, we can fix this. Let me see,” I whisper, like Christian might be hiding behind the overgrown weeds in the corner rather than inside his lighthouse, doing whatever it is he does in there all day.

I reach for his paw, being as gentle as I can when I turn it over to inspect it. Embedded in between the pads, a piece of sharp glass is stuck in the skin, and the sight of the blood makes my head spin.

Pull it together, Mila. He can’t take it out himself.

I blow out a breath between my teeth, shutting my eyes against the wooziness that threatens to drag me under.

“Alright, don’t panic.”

I think I’m the only one panicking here, but someone’s got to say it.

Phantom cocks his head at me, attempting to pull his paw back, but without much force. I can’t imagine how much pain he must be in.

“I’m going to pull it out,” I tell him, crouching to get a better vantage point.

I know next to nothing about caring for the injured paw of a dog, but I’m not about to let him suffer, and without a vet anywhere in the next five miles, I’m his best bet.

“Okay, this will hurt a little.”

I reach for the glass, steeling myself and gritting my teeth, just as Phantom tries to tug his paw away. The moment I touch the glass, my fingers connecting with the sharp edges, he yelps in pain and nips at me.

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