Page 31 of His Angel

“Can I come with you?”

“Absolutely not. Ryan?” He nods toward a guard outside the door, and my cheeks flush, realizing he’s been there the entire time.

Ryan walks in, young, built like a wall with a rifle at his side. “Sir?”

“You’re on her. Anything happens—scratch, bruise, frown line, I’ll gut you slow and feed you to the sharks. Clear?”

Ryan nods, stone-faced, and Isaia grabs my chin, kisses me hard—tongue deep, owning me—then strides out, leaving me and Ryan here in an awkward moment of prolonged silence.

I rise, tugging at his shirt draped over my thighs, regretting my choice of boy shorts this morning.

“So, you're Ryan. I'm Everly.” I extend a hand, which he ignores. I wipe my palm on my shirt. "Nice day, huh?"

Crickets.

“Okay, then. I think I’ll go take a shower.”

As I start down the hall, a second pair of footsteps follow. I freeze and turn with Ryan behind me, and he stops when I stop.

I cock a brow. “I’m sure you can wait for me in the living room.”

Nothing. The man doesn’t even bat an eyelash.

I narrow my eyes at him, then start toward the bedroom, only to hear him no more than two steps behind me, so I pivot. “Are you going to follow me to my room?”

Not. A. Word.

He stares, eyes flat, lips sealed, like I’m talking to a wall. I roll my eyes and head farther down the hall—barefoot, hair a mess, his boots thudding behind me like a shadow. The man’s silence is grating, and I clench my teeth to stifle the exasperation.

“You know,” I say, trying to keep my voice light, “if you’re afraid of being fed to sharks, you could try striking up a conversation. Sharks don't eat talkative people.”

He finally looks at me, studies me for a long moment, managing to look both bored and calculating, then simply straightens without saying a word.

I huff. “You ever talk? Or is your mouth just decoration?”

He shifts his weight and stares past me.

“Real charmer,” I mutter and decide to just let the awkward silence kill me.

The hall stretches, opulent and endless, and I’m in the middle of wondering if Ryan plans on stepping into the shower with me at this rate when we pass Isaia’s office.

I stop dead, eyeing the mahogany door, the deadbolt gleaming like a taunt. Why is it locked like a king’s crypt?

Hands planted on my hips, I turn to face Ryan. “What’s with the vault setup?”

He stands, lips clamped, staring through me.

I step closer. “Is it guns? Drugs? A tiger?”

Nothing. Not a twitch.

“Real helpful,” I quip. “Bet you’re a blast at parties.”

He adjusts his rifle and looks past me—mute as a statue.

I walk up to the door and drag a finger along the deadbolt when my mute bodyguard clears his throat. Abruptly, I whip around to face him.

“You got something to say?” I challenge, and he presses his lips together. My hand moves down to the doorknob. “How about now?”

---