Page 54 of Teach Me to Fly

She takes the bag from me and rests it on her lap while I reach into my pocket and pull out the money that she tossed on the table back in the restaurant.

“Don’t insult me by paying on our date.” I drop the notes into her lap. “In fact, don’t even bring your wallet next time.”

“So, this wasn’t part of the field trip?” she asks, eyes dropping back to my lips, reminding me of how she tasted in that alley.

I want to take her home and strip her down and worship her until she forgets every man who’s ever touched her wrong. I want all of her—but not like this. Not yet. So instead of answering, I close the passenger side door and round the car, sliding into the driver’s side bringing the engine to life and pulling out onto the road, driving us back to the house.

I let the low thrum of music from my radio fill the silence between us as I drive, my mind too consumed by thoughts of the alley. ‘I’d rather die than let another man take advantage of my body’, she’d said.

Another.

The times that she’d called me, the texts that she’d sent. Were any of those her attempts at asking for my help? Thethought sinks its claws in deep, and I grip the steering wheel hard enough that my knuckles go bone-white the rest of the drive to the estate grounds. I was bitter about her leaving me, but it was really me who left her in the end.

I parkthe car just outside of the guesthouse and help Angelique climb out, taking the food from her lap.

“Do you want me to reheat your plate for you?” I ask as we step inside, watching as she slips her heels off.

“I’ll eat it tomorrow,” she murmurs, bending down to pick them up. “I should’ve listened to you about taking it easy on the drinking. Wine always makes me sleepy.”

I nod. “Goodnight, then.”

“Goodnight, Reign,” she mumbles.

Once Angelique disappears down the hall, I sit at the kitchen island eating my reheated dinner while thinking about the bastards from the alley. I send a quick email to the restaurant to make sure they’ve filed the report with the police and set my phone down while I wait for a reply. If I ever see them again, I’ll fucking kill them with my bare hands for hurting her.

After I clean up my plate, I take a long shower and then make my way to my bedroom while drying my hair with a small towel, but I pause when I find Angelique standing next to my bed, facing me, her eyes unfocused.

“Sleepwalking, again,” I mutter, letting my eyes drift over her body as I lean against my door frame, working the towel through my damp hair. “But why my room, Angel?”

My eyes catch on the angry red marks still slashed across her throat from tonight’s attack—but then something worse punches the air out of my lungs. My browsknit, and the towel slips from my hand, forgotten as I step toward her, heart slamming against my ribs.

I reach out slowly, careful not to startle her awake, my fingers wrapping gently around her wrist and turning it over. Cuts, dozens of them, litter her arm from her wrist all the way up, disappearing under the sleeve of her shirt. Some thin and faded like pale threads. Others fresh—raw and red, scabbing over in jagged lines.

She’s been cutting herself?

No.No.

My jaw clenches hard, a bitter taste crawling up the back of my throat. I stare at her arm and a roar of guilt swells in my chest so loud it nearly drowns out my thoughts.

Where the hell was I?

How many of these marks were carved into her because I wasn’t there to help her?

I lift her arm higher, bringing her wrist to my lips and press a gentle kiss just above the freshest cut, like my mouth alone could undo the pain it took to make it.

“Angel,” I whisper, even though I know she can’t hear me like this.

But maybe some part of her does. Maybe that part is why she ended up in my room tonight instead of her own. Maybe she came here because even in her sleep, her subconscious knows I’ll keep her safe. Even if it’s from herself.

I reach for her other hand and gently guide her to my bed, pulling the covers down and helping her lie against the pillows. She exhales softly as I tuck the blanket around her and I’m careful not to jostle the mattress too much as I slowly ease under the covers behind her.

Her body is turned away from me, curled in tight, likeshe’s protecting herself even in sleep. I fit myself to her back, leaving just a whisper of space between us, but I want to hold her. God, I want to wrap my arm around her waist, press my hand to her stomach, let her feel that I’m here, and that she’s safe.

But I won’t touch her, not while she’s asleep. Instead, I choose to lie there, close enough that I can feel the heat of her body on mine and the rise and fall of her breathing. My eyes trace the shadows on the ceiling, heart still thundering from what I saw on her wrist.

I should have known.I should have fucking known.

But I’ve been too wrapped up in my own pain to see hers. Too selfish. Too angry. But not anymore. I don’t care what it takes—therapy, patience, time, blood—I’ll give it. I’ll give her everything I’ve got left. And if she doesn’t have the strength to keep going some days, then I’ll carry her. Crawl into her darkness and drag her out, even if it tears me apart. I whisper into the quiet, my lips close enough that the words kiss her hair.

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