Page 63 of His Angel

I jolt awake, a gasp ripping from my throat, and the room spins—walls tilting, shadows lunging. My chest heaves, each breath a jagged shard slicing through my lungs, and I'm crying—hot, choking sobs that tangle with the air I can't catch.

The sheets cling to my skin, soaked with sweat, twisting around my legs like they're trying to drag me back into the nightmare. I’m clawing at my throat, nails digging in, desperate to pull oxygen past the vise clamping my ribs, but it's stuck, a wheeze scraping out, thin and shrill, like a whistle lost in a storm.

“Anthony,” I sob, the name spilling out, raw and broken, over and over. “Anthony, there’s blood—lies—death—Luna—she’s gone—there’s so much blood?—”

The mattress shifts, and Isaia’s voice cuts through the fog, a lifeline I can't grasp. “Everly, baby, you’re okay. You’re here with me.”

His hands find my shoulders, but I flinch, my body jerking as if it’s still trapped in that church, still watching Anthony bleed out.

My eyes dart around the dark room, moonlight slicing through the blinds, Isaia’s face blurred by tears, and I choke again, a ragged gasp that collapses into a cough, my chest caving, air slipping away.

“I can’t…I can’t breathe.” My words tangle, circling, spilling out in a frantic mess. “He’s dead. There’s so much blood, Isaia. Oh, God.” My heart thunders, a brutal, unrelenting drum reverberating within my hollowed chest. It's deafening, overbearing, and it weighs on me like a gravestone.

Anthony’s gravestone.

My hands scrabble at the sheets, fingers twisting into the fabric, and I’m heaving, chest rattling with shallow, useless breaths.

The room closes in, walls shrinking, air thickening, and my lungs seize, a tight, burning knot that won’t loosen, each wheeze a knife twisting deeper.

Isaia’s hands slide to my face, his calloused palms cupping my cheeks, and his voice drops, cooing, desperate to pull me back.

“Everly, look at me. Focus on me, baby girl.” His thumbs brush my tears, smearing the wet streaks. “You’re okay. You just need to breathe. Focus on breathing.” His breath hitches—quick, shallow—like he’s choking on it too, and his grip tightens, just a little, as if he’s afraid I’ll slip through his fingers.

“I…I can’t—” I gasp, my voice a broken thread, and my chest caves again, a sharp wheeze cutting through the sobs. My throat’s raw, like sandpaper scraping every breath, and my lungs feel like they’re drowning, air trapped behind a wall I can’t break. “I can’t breathe.”

“Fuck.” He shifts fast, one arm wrapping around my waist, pulling me against his chest, but my body trembles, shaking so hard my teeth chatter, and the wheeze turns shrill, a high-pitched whine that fills the room.

His heart pounds against my cheek—fast, erratic—and I feel the tremor in his hands as he fumbles beside the bed, knocking over a glass, the shatter swallowed by my gasps.

“Hold on. I’ve got it—fuck, where is it?” His voice shakes, raw panic bleeding through, and he lunges for the nightstand drawer, yanking it open with a clatter.

My vision blurs, black spots swimming, edges fraying, and my sobs choke into coughs, each one a stab in my chest, my lungs screaming for air that won’t come.

“Got it!” He shakes it, pops the cap, and presses it to my lips. “Now breathe in deep for me, baby girl.” His voice cracks, fear raw and unguarded as he holds my gaze, dark eyes wide and glassy, as if he’s watching me die.

The cool mist floods my mouth as he presses the canister, but my lungs fight it, a burning knot tightening, resisting. My wheeze is a whistle now—high, thin, desperate—and my chest heaves, each breath a shallow stab that doesn’t reach deep enough.

“Fuck, baby, you gotta breathe for me, okay?” His voice breaks, and he presses it once more, his hand steadying my jaw, his thumb digging into my cheek as he forces me to take it.

Isaia’s fear is a living thing etched in the sweat beading on his brow, the way his breath stutters as if he’s running out of air, too.

The mist seeps in—slow, cold, and the knot loosens, just a fraction, oxygen trickling past the burn.

My wheeze softens—still shrill, but less frantic—and I suck in a shaky breath, tears streaming hot down my face, mixing with the sweat soaking my neck. My chest rattles, but the black spots fade, the room steadying as I slump against him, heaving, crying, the nightmare still clawing at my skull.

“Anthony…he’s dead.” The words tumble out, a broken loop, and I’m trembling, my hands fisting his shirt, nails digging into the fabric. “If I trusted him more, if I didn’t lie?—”

“Shh, baby girl. Don’t talk, just breathe.” Isaia’s voice is softer now, but he’s pulling me closer, wrapping me tightly against him, his arms a cage I can’t fight.

His breath brushes my hair, and his hand strokes my back, slow circles over the damp cotton of my shirt, trying to soothe the storm I can’t shake. “Just breathe.”

My lungs burn, each breath a shallow rasp, and I press my face into his chest, the steady thud of his heart anchoring me as the wheeze fades to a faint whistle. My sobs slow, but the nightmare’s grip lingers, blood and death and Anthony’s dull eyes flashing behind my lids.

I push back the image and grasp at memories. Good ones. Trying to remember his laugh, the sound of his voice, how he’d always find a way to make me feel safe and appreciated. He did everything for me, gave me everything I needed, like the freedom to find myself—even if it meant him making the sacrifice.

“He gave me Luna,” I whimper and feel Isaia tense. “So I wouldn’t be alone.” Hearing her name, Luna jumps onto the bed, nudging my arm with her cold nose. I scoop her close, burying my fingers in her fur. “He tried to convince me to stay in New York, but when I wouldn’t budge, he surprised me with the cutest puppy I’ve ever seen in my life.”

Fresh tears sting my eyes, clenching my jaw to keep them from falling.

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