Chapter 43
43
I stir in the hazelnut creamer, watching the rich coffee tone transform before my eyes. The epitome of magic in a cup, in my humble opinion.
After last night, this particular aroma is leaving me swooning in anticipation of that first sip. Getting to have such an intensely special experience with all my men—not only that, but to also sneak a little dash of sweetness from Hawke in this very kitchen during the early hours of this morning—I’m floating along in an immensely weary but blissed out state.
Despite being left by the others to snuggle with Angel and enjoy a deliciously indulgent sleep-in, my eyes feel like they’re struggling to stay open, so an extra strong hit of caffeine is high priority.
After I pour my giant his requisite black tar-juice he seems to enjoy so much, making a scrunched face as I imagine just how bitter it will taste, I carry both mugs and pad my way to his bedroom. Wearing only one of his enormous soft t-shirts, I’m biting back a loopy smile, recalling being seated at that very kitchen counter what feels like only a few short hours ago.
Hawke allowed me a deeper insight into himself last night than I ever thought possible. We talked about his brothers, Thorne and Ky, the latter who they essentially took in and adopted as family when they were nothing but kids themselves. Their life growing up here in Noire House as part of something most people could never begin to imagine. While we didn’t exactly dive into a thorough examination of his past, there were enough clues leading me to the inevitable conclusion that the Callianos have been through hell from the moment their childhoods were stolen by the foulest of people.
They have suffered unimaginable horrors at the hands of predators who target children, and unfortunately for this man—who now dedicates his life to being so strong for so many others—he caught the attention of someone who, by all rights, should have been brought to justice a long time ago for their actions. When I asked him what happened to them, he shrugged it off and explained that they’d since passed.
So now, his focus remains lasered in on the children he can save, all while living within the world that destroyed his own life.
We ate reheated leftovers and ice cream while I quizzed him about his favorite novels, the collection lining his bedroom, and authors he re-reads time and again until I couldn’t stay awake any longer. At the point I nearly slumped over the kitchen counter, Hawke ended up carrying me back to bed.
While I don’t believe for one second that he’s given me more than a crack in a window to peek through to glimpse his inner workings, it feels a little bit like I’ve scaled a mountain. Thinking back to our first interactions, it’s no wonder he was so deeply filled with distrust for anyone and everything. Hawke Calliano is a series of complexities, and I feel a warm glow seated in my chest that I’ve been allowed to see him unshielded during those dark hours when he sat bare-chested, exposing parts of not only his physical self, but his mind that I found so fascinating to listen to.
By the time I’ve replayed more than one little glance of those impossibly blue eyes and heartstopping quirk of his lips, I’ve followed the sound of running water, seeking out Angel in his room.
“I’ve got coffee.” Calling out as I wander over to the dresser by his window, I set his down and cradle my own in both hands. “Yours looks gross, by the way. How you can drink that straight without any sweetener…” I shudder and relish the far superior flavor of my own.
The shower keeps thundering, and my eyes snag on his phone lying face up. At first, I think nothing of it. I am not about to pry or invade Angel’s privacy, but as I tip my mug against my lips, the mid-morning light catches on the screen. Running my tongue to collect some of the foam lingering on my upper lip, I realize there’s a text thread open. His phone sits unlocked, and as I stand there my eyes dance over the series of bubbles that are a one-sided series of messages.
It’s his conversation… with me… the same one he showed me the other day when we sat outside huddled under the blanket together.
Quickly darting a glance toward the bathroom, I hear the water still rushing loudly, and when I look back I can make out the last series of lines. The most recent section of text he’d composed prior to going into the bathroom awaits.
You make these little noises while you’re asleep, by the way.
They’re contented, almost like you’re sighing in your dreams. I don’t know if it’s too creepy to admit this, but sometimes I fight the feeling of drifting off, not wanting to, because you’re right there coating my skin in those sounds.
You know how you said your nightmares were gone? Mine are, too.
You keep my night terrors away, Poe.
I’m so damn hungry for this man’s words, for all the things he has locked away inside his mind that I don’t get to share freely with him. Setting my coffee down, I reach out to scroll back, just a little. Angel told me I could read them, after all. I know I didn’t imagine that, he nodded in agreement when I asked.
Even though he gave permission, I’m chewing the inside of my cheek, feeling a little bit like I’m intruding. My debate with myself continues the entire time my finger slides across the screen. Further and further, I scroll through a series of messages that showcase a litany of Angel’s innermost thoughts.
There are some days when it’s brief. Almost like a checklist he’s typed out for himself, a methodical sort of assessment as to my needs. I see the days when he was in caregiver mode and purely focused on my well-being, along with the days when he was achingly frustrated with me and my god-awful behavior toward him.
My heart sinks, and I skip past the messages that relate to the point in time when I was no better than an invalid in bed who spat ugly words his way. While maybe eventually I might bring myself to go through all of those small occasions to understand what he was trying to tell me, or what he was thinking, there’s a different moment in time I’m primarily interested in finding.
I’m searching for the start to all of this.
If I’m going to understand Angel in this way, I want to know the story right from the beginning.
As the shower continues to run, I keep scrolling, and eventually find what I’m looking for.
There it sits. A brief note at the very top of the thread.
How foolish could you be?
You’ve made it too easy for someone like me to gain access. It’s pathetic how easily I can ruin your entire life.
Posey Jasmine Reed. That’s your name, or so I’ve been told.
My throat tightens as my eyes flicker across the words, swallowing them down like I’ve finally discovered water after being left stranded in a vast expanse of sand dunes, yet feeling a twist deep in my stomach because this doesn’t even sound like the Angel I know.
In contrast to the words I just read a few seconds ago, these letters on screen drip with angst, they taunt me even though they’re written in secret.
Off you go to your shitty job you hate, and all those hours while you’re in that diner serving bottomless cups of coffee and fry ups, you think your home is safe.
Come home at night. Walk around with no clothes on and all your lights blazing. Any fucking pervert could look in and see you.
Do you know that? Is that why you do it?
Then you go to sleep and don’t even know that I’m standing right beside your bed. It’s too easy to slip something in your drink or your food while you’re out for the day, to ensure you sleep heavily enough that I can do whatever the hell I want in this shitty apartment.
While you dream, completely ignorant of what’s going on around you, I’ve set up cameras and microphones and cloned your cell. I’ve learned everything there is to know about your pathetically small life.
Because I have to.
Because this is the deal I’ve had to make.
Damn it, I don’t want to fuck up your life, Posey Reed, but you leave the door wide open to make it so easy. Some nights, I wish you’d wake up and realize. That you’d somehow discover what is about to happen to you.
My mouth feels like it’s been filled with chalk. With shaking fingers, I have to set my cup down before it clatters to the floor, as I struggle to come to terms with what I’m reading. Those cruel and uncaring words aren’t my Angel. They can’t possibly have been written by the man who cradles me and washes my hair and treats me with such tenderness it melts my entire soul.
Today, you’ll find the first card. It’ll mean nothing to you, of course, but I have to carry out orders.
Why can’t you be more aware of what I’m doing to you?
Today, I walked right by, and you didn’t even see me, too busy on the phone with your friend. I know every fucking thing about your life, and yet I’m a ghost to you.
It killed me having to do that today. You found that calling card, and you just looked confused. Of course you did, because you have no goddamn idea what is happening to you without your knowledge.
They’ll turn you into their own private whore. They’ll break you and not even care because, in their eyes, you’re replaceable.
Why don’t you even see me?
Tomorrow, you’ll be given your ticket.
There’s nothing I can do now.
Tears prick the back of my eyes like a thousand hot needles. I’m blinking hard as I stare at the screen, unable to rationalize the man currently only a matter of feet away, who has been the reason for all of this all along. Who brought me into all of this. Who invaded my life and my home and my everything.
There’s a longer sequence of messages, and I suck in a deep breath as I read.
Poe. That’s what you prefer to be called, right?
If I could tell you one thing right now, it would be to disappear. To get the fuck away from Port Macabre. To take your pretty smile and eyes sent to drown a man, and run.
But I can’t tell you anything. I have to be the one who lures you into this fucked up world.
Except, you don’t know that this is where it all started for you. That you came from Elysium House, born to parents who didn’t plan for a child. They thought that giving a baby—you—up anonymously would save you from this bullshit, but I’ve been trained my entire miserable life in how to learn ways to find people who don’t want to be found.
I’m the worst thing to ever happen to you, because I discovered you. The missing child, born to elite members of the Anguis, both of whom have long since vacated this world.
But there’s no denying you are their bloodline, and that makes you a valuable commodity in the eyes of the powerful people who want to initiate you and immerse you in their poisonous existence.
I’m here to hunt you, my beautiful little mark. I’m tasked with stalking you like a deer in the forest, and tomorrow night will be the moment you’re locked into that scope without any goddamn chance of running free ever again .
I step back hastily, having seen more than enough. The waves of nausea rise higher and higher as that acrid taste in the back of my mouth consumes my senses.
All my blood has left my face while I tremble, stuck here, rooted on the spot. Like a fool.
The shower cuts off and the suddenness of the ensuing silence makes me jump. Before I know what I’m doing, I tug open all of the drawers in front of me, frantically rifling through the sparse items and folded clothing inside. All those words collide and merge and set in motion a catastrophic explosion inside my brain. As everything I ever thought I knew incinerates before my eyes, I’m searching.
I need to see them.
I know they’re here.
Hauling the middle drawer forward, there are no clothes inside. Only rows of small boxes neatly lined up on the left. To the right, weapons. Guns. Knives. Magazines. All the evidence of death and destruction that this world specializes in.
My hands shake uncontrollably as I reach for one of the matte black boxes and pull the lid open. Inside, staring back at me with soulless void eyes, is the image of a gold skull imprinted on card stock.
As the box tumbles from my fingers, the tarot cards scatter like garish confetti, and a flutter of black and gold covers the carpet surrounding my bare toes.
The all too familiar sight stares back at me. It’s the exact same card I found that day before I came to Noire House for the first time.
Death .
As I feel my stomach fall through the floor, seeing the evidence of exactly who Angel is and what he’s done, the man himself emerges from the shower in a cloud of steam billowing behind him, looking like he’s just emerged from the fires of hell itself .
His wet hair hangs around his face as he stands there in a pair of sweats while scrubbing a towel over the damp strands, and in that micro-moment, all those secrets he’s been carrying are laid bare between us without having to say a single word.
I see his eyes flit over the scene.
The cards scattered across the floor. The dresser with contents spilling out of each place I’ve ransacked for confirmation of his words. His phone on top of the drawers.
Those eyes I’ve stared into a thousand times, that I’ve fallen asleep under the watchful stare of, and woken up in the morning to their rich, honeyed depths, they beg me as he lets the towel fall and slowly raises both palms in my direction.
No. Fuck that. Fuck everything.
I turn on my heel and bolt.
I run away from the man I’ve fallen hopelessly and irrevocably in love with.
At that moment, I sprint for my life.