“Close enough, sweetheart. It’sAnxo.” His lips turn up in a smug smirk at my shameless gawking.
I can’t even blame myself for my lack of self-control. The maroon sweater, flawlessly hugging his broad shoulders, is a mind-numbing distraction.
Wait... did he just call me sweetheart?
Me? Sweetheart?
Maybe he’s just as crazy as I am.
I knock my temple twice, like that will magically fix the broken wires inside my brain or at least jumpstart it. My fingers catch on a thick bandage on my forehead, and I rip it off without thinking it through.Big mistake.
The sting triggers my memory, and suddenly, everything that happened last night hits me hard enough to knock me out of my sleepy daze. I groan and drop my head into my hands, the pressure of my broken and mismatched memories making my head pound.
The Deviants. The coven. Oh, Fates, THE KID!
Shit. Shit. Fuckidy shit.
As if he can hear my inner turmoil, the man I now remember—Anxo, aka my Angel—rushes to my side. “Calmdown, Nevaeh. The boy is safe. He’s still asleep, but the healers are trying to figure out what’s wrong with him. He’s going to be okay, I promise.”
His words sink in just in time to stop me from scouring this place for my kid like a crazy woman.
“Good. Now take a deep breath, okay?” His voice is alluring like a spell, and I find myself mimicking the way his chest expands to breathe more air. “That’s it, sweetheart. You’re doing great. Just keep breathing for me.”
Why the hell am I taking orders from Angel and obeying like a doe-eyed puppy?
Once my panic recedes, I open my eyes and find Angel sitting close enough to reach out and brush my fingers over his cheekbone.
I immediately shove that idiotic thought away. What the fuck is wrong with me?
It’s like every time I blink, Angel inches closer. I want to ask him why he keeps erasing the distance between us, but the words won’t come out.
It’s definitely not because of his scent, which I may or may not be a little addicted to, or the way my body hums at his proximity, or how he makes the constant screeching inside my head stop, or—
That’s it. I’m a victim of witchcraft. I didn’t think any of that. It was the curse talking.
I push my brain rot aside and ask the one thing clawing at my chest. “Where’s my papa?”
Angel’s eyes flash with uncertainty before he quickly masks it. This is why I don’t trust his calmness. It feels practiced, not something that comes naturally to him. Nobody is this composed and patient all the damn time.
“How about you clean up and eat something first?” Angel bargains.
“And then you’ll tell me where he is?”
“Promise, sweetheart.”
Ugh, why does he keep calling me that?! I hate it. Maybe.
He gives me a soft, dimpled smile, and what’s left of my brain dissolves into goo. The man is determined to ruin my ‘unbothered as fuck’ image.
I peel myself from the feather-like blanket and slip out of bed to compose myself. Shifting my weight on both feet, I carefully check if everything is back to its original condition.
When I steal a glance at Angel, he is already looking at me with a soft expression—so vulnerable and hopeful that it tugs at something in my heart.
I avoid meeting his eyes, and I think he finally realizes that I don’t understand his subtle question, so he offers me a bundle of clothes and shows me where the bathroom is.
Just before I can lock myself behind the door, the question tumbles out. “Why do you keep calling me that?”
“Calling you what?”
