Page 59 of His Angel

I step back, chest heaving, and wipe the blade on my shirt, leaving his twitching corpse sprawled in the dirt—mauled, marked, a warning to any fucker who forgets who she belongs to.

“That’s what you get,” I mutter, spitting on his ruin, “for wanting what’s mine.”

Poppy’s voice crackles through the radio. “Well, shit. That was a masterpiece. I’m turned on.”

“Tell Davian he can thank me later,” I grunt, pocketing the knife, my eyes flicking to Everly—still swimming, oblivious, her strokes cutting smoothly through the water. “Anyone else out there?”

“Nope,” Poppy says, voice sharp now. “All clear.”

“Good. Keep your position, just in case.”

“Oh, come on. I told you I was turned on. This Rabbit needs to get eaten.”

“Jesus,” I mutter, wiping my eyes with the back of my hand.

“Right, because carving her name into his chest didn’t give you a hard-on,” she retorts, a teasing note in her voice.

“Enough, Poppy.”

“Killjoy,” she scoffs before clicking off.

I radio Talon, telling him there’s a clean-up on the east side of the house, then I take a moment to catch my breath, the adrenaline slowly ebbing from my veins. But the thrill’s still there, licking my skin with a devil’s tongue, seeping deep into my bones.

Pulling a cigarette from my pocket, I light it up and inhale the sharp smoke, letting it settle right at the bottom of my lungs. The world seems to tilt on its perilous axis as I exhale slowly, watching the curling tendrils of smoke disappear into the fading evening light.

My gaze flits back to Everly. She’s still oblivious to the violence, to the life I just took, flipped on her back and floating effortlessly, so at peace in a world that hardly allows it.

She says she understands, that she likes how possessive I am, that my obsession turns her on. But I don’t think she fully comprehends how black this darkness really is.

I don’t think I do either.

Chapter19

EVERLY

Past

The air in Anthony’s apartment feels different today. Lighter, somehow, even with the familiar hum of the city pressing against the windows. I’ve been eighteen for a few weeks now, and every day since my birthday, this place has been my sanctuary—his penthouse, a fortress of sleek lines and warm leather, a world away from Michele’s suffocating cage.

But it’s not home. Not really.

Nowhere’s ever been home to me. But this is his space, his rules, his life, and I’m just borrowing it until I figure out how to breathe on my own.

I’m sitting cross-legged on the bed in the guest room he insists isn’t a guest room anymore, cradling a mug of coffee between my palms. The steam curls up, tickling my nose with that rich, bitter scent I love, and I glance at Anthony sprawled beside me—long legs stretched out, one arm propped behind his head, his own mug balanced on his chest like he’s daring it to spill.

His dark hair’s a mess, sticking up from where he’s been raking his hand through it, and his bright eyes catch the morning light streaming through the blinds, glinting with that easy mischief I’ve leaned on for years.

It’s our morning routine now. He brings me coffee in bed and gets in next to me, and we’ll start the day with banter and laughter. But today’s different.

“You’re quiet today,” he says, tilting his head to study me, his voice low and warm, like he’s testing the waters.

I take a sip of coffee, letting it burn my tongue just a little, and shrug. “Just thinking.”

“About what?” He nudges my knee with his socked foot, a playful prod that makes me smile despite myself.

“About how I can’t stay here forever.” My words hang between us, and I watch his face shift—nothing dramatic, just a flicker in his eyes, a tightening at the corners of his mouth.

“We’ve talked about this, Everly.” His tone stays light, but there’s a thread of something heavier woven in, the same one I’ve heard every time this comes up. “You don’t have to go anywhere. This place is yours as long as you want it.”

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