Perhaps the angel isn’t real. She’s in my imagination as a drug-induced hallucination.
Either way, it’s her breaths I rest to, counting each one to ensure they continue.
When cold, male hands press on the injury, the stinging yanks me from my medicated rest, undoing the effectiveness of those little pills that were shoved down my throat at some point.
Then, there’s another hand, one softer and tentative, while nails lightly scrape my forehead and into my hair. The hand flips, brushing my skin with the back of her fingers in a way meant to be soothing.
It’s working.
“He’ll be okay, right?” Worry tinges the angel’s tone. Worry over me? That’s new. So few people have ever cared enough to be concerned.
This is a concerning fact.
When the pain eases up enough, I wake again, but a weight on my body prevents my eyes opening. It’s okay, because the darkness acts as a soothing curtain.
Gentle shushing, followed by those hands again, is even more soothing.
Why is there someone here?Anastasia, remove them.
The nails glide against my skull, and sleep consumes me again.
Never mind, Ana.
The next time I come to, it’s for good.
The heaviness from earlier releases me from its drug-induced embrace, and I blink into the darkness, trying to piece everything together. Tenderness radiates from my shoulder, but that’s nothing new. My body feeling more rested than it’s been in the past month, however, is.
Bullet wounds, when not fatal, don’t usually keep me down this long. My body typically ignores its own healing requirements, because resting is impossible when my mind races. But something was different this time.
My gaze flicks to the window over my shoulder to garner an idea of the time. The sliver of crescent moon states being middle of the night. Whether or not it’s the same day remains to be seen.
My movement draws focus to something else—to my hand resting on the left side of my bed and to the chair pulled as close as possible, to the woman slumped in it, her face angled awayand pillowed by her other arm. A stream of dark hair blankets her, strands tickling my fingers from where hers rest atop mine.
Someone is touching me, someone uninvited. Someone is in my room when they shouldn’t be.
The panic is an instant claw while my brain catches up to what it last recalls—to the events that led me here. The wound was created by a bullet. A bullet I took in exchange for Serafina Mancini’s life.
And now, she’shere. In my room. At nighttime.
There’s no buzzing; no static in my mind. Next to her, it becomes the most alarming and instant fact. When my mind should be confused and distracted by another’s presence, it’s, for once, silent. Peaceful.
It’s her.Not the meds, though those are a definite possibility, but recalling how she held me in the vehicle, and every touch she soothed me with, it’s all her.
Strange…and disconcerting.
Maybe I’m broken. The bullet went straight through, but perhaps fragments remain, fucking with my senses.
Without moving, I twist towards the bedside table, searching for my phone to determine the exact time. It was in my pocket when Anastasia and I arrived at the warehouse with backup for Vanessa’s unwise one-woman charge, but it’s now plugged in and resting on my nightstand. Presumably my sister’s doing.
With a tap to the blackened screen, it lights up, revealing the time.
2:54 a.m.
The movement accidentally wakes Serafina, who, with a low, feminine moan, lifts her head to focus on me. Her eyes are a vibrant blue that may be the same as Vanessa and her father’s—theirfather’s—but is also entirely her own. I find myself studying them in a manner atypical of me. There’s a mischievous glint,masked by a curiosity and gentleness, as she studies me in return.
Vanessa’s eyes don’t make me feel like my mattress will suck me in, especially when they widen, and full lips curve in a gentle smile. But hers do. They return the panicked sensation clenching my chest—but not for reasons pertaining to her presence.
“You’re awake.” It’sthevoice. My angel’s voice. The lilt that doesn’t annoy me like everyone else’s does.
