My throat bobbed. “What if sheisn’treal?”
“Then checking yourself into the psych ward has to go higher up the to-do list, but I think she is. I think it’s easier for you to believe this nurse is an angel because for guys with careers like ours, it’s better to question your sanity than betray someone you love. Even if,arguments aside, it was a fraternal love and not that of a man with a woman he wants.” Gently, he added, “She was an adult when she died, Stan. My brother, Eoghan, claimed his bride at eighteen. You could have done the same with Evangelineifyou’d truly loved her…”
I laid the blame on the lack of sleep for the prickle in my eyes.
Sicilians weren’t like Americans—we cried. The men, too. There was no shame in emotion. But I couldn’t cry. If I did, I felt like it’d set off depth charges on the dam that held back everything I’d repressed in the wake of Evangeline’s passing.
If I let loose, then that was me done for.
Soul shattered yet still breathing, I stared at his screen, saw a green cursor flickering against the black background awaiting his command.
It boiled down to Y/N.
“She’s real, isn’t she?”
“She is,” he confirmed kindly. Kinder than an evil bastard like me probably deserved. “We can find out who she is. Get you a name. I should warn you it’s illegal to stalk in this household and Star will have to put you down if you freak your angel out?—”
I wafted a dismissive hand at the warning. “Okay, I’m ready.”
Conor hit ‘Y.’
My heart slowed. If I’d taken Vangelin—my creation—I’d understand why, as it was supposed to help with blood pressure and, in certain doses, regulate cardiac rhythm, but this had nothing to do with pharmacology, more biochem.
Pure dread and excitement coagulated in my peripheral nervous system, preparing for the blast of an adrenaline hit.
The footage showed me in my private room from a bird’s eye perspective. There I stood, packing my shit, back bowed like I was broken, and, yes, the fly of my jeans lowered becauseof course.
The sight of me on camera was different than the reflection I saw in the mirror. I looked terrible. Older than my years. Emaciated. Devastated.
Which was when I got it—thiswas what scared Luc and Rory.
I didn’t look like me.
Even strung out on narcotics, my appearance hadn’t deteriorated this dramatically. No wonder Hunter had dealt me industrial amounts of protein in pre-made shakes with every hospital visit.
The door opened.
When the version of me on the camera didn’t react, I knew my reflex times were shot because I should have heard that.
My visitor had meant me no harm, but she could have been one of our many enemies—we collected them, after all, like a badge of pride.
Then, Conor did something and the angle shifted and I sawher. Took note of the lightbulb that flickered behind her in the hall that led to me wondering if she had a halo.
My angel wasn’t an angel.
My angel was real.
My angel wasn’t a dream.
She was a woman.
Not a figment of a distressed imagination.
Not the hallucination of a man who’d taken his own drugs after inciting cardiac events via self-medication.
This had nothing to do with losing my mind. At least, not about this.
I was just a typical male asshole, quick to move on in the face of loss.
