TWENTY-SIX
He left. I kept cleaning and bandaging him, my hands moving on autopilot while silence dragged between us like a third presence in the room. The unease was so viscous I could’ve bitten out a chunk from it.
His gaze never lifted to mine after that. There was only the twitch of muscle when I brushed a bruise, a sharp hiss as the antiseptic burned.
And then – he walked out. Just like that – into the quiet dark. Left me blinking in the dim hallway light, the scent of him still clinging to the air.
I cursed my prey instincts for existing. Cursed the heat that had surged through me when I gripped him by the throat. I shouldn’t have done that. I should’ve just…
Nothing. I should’ve done nothing.
The phone buzzed not ten minutes later.
I ignored Gianna’s message that she was home, though I should’ve thanked her for dragging me to that god-awful place – otherwise Cain might’ve been hurt far worse.
I nearly didn’t answer. But of course, I did – it was him.
‘I’m sorry. I was out of line,’ he said, words tumbling out too fast.
My heart flipped.
‘It’s okay,’ I murmured. ‘We’re both a mess tonight.’
But he didn’t hang up. Just breathed, as if holding back secrets meant only for the dark.
And we started talking. About what we were. About what we wanted to be – as authors, as people.
It wasn’t until I yawned, dragging my eyes to the digital clock on the oven, that I realised—
‘It’s almost five in the morning,’ I murmured into the phone, my voice rough with exhaustion and something softer, more fragile.
Cain let out a long breath, the kind that carried more weight than words. I heard the sheets shifting from the other end of the line, heard the tension leaving his frame in soft exhales.
‘So it is,’ he rumbled back warmly.
God, that honey-soaked voice.
‘Sorry for keeping you up so long.’
But he wasn’t sorry. And neither was I.
A slow smile crept over my lips, one he couldn’t see. I’d heard it all tonight: why he’d gone to the fighting ring, the things he believed about himself, the warped image he carried. He truly thought he was monstrous.
He didn’t even realise how wrong he was.
And I’d opened up, too – more than I ever had, even in therapy. I told him everything about Travis.
‘Any time,’ I said softly, my thumb brushing over the edge of my phone like it might reach him through static and space.
He didn’t hang up. Two breaths passed.
‘I know I’m not anyone that matters to you. But, for what it’s worth, you should be proud of yourself,’ I said.
The silence took over. As though the words landed somewhere deeper than either of us expected.
His voice softened, the edge giving way to something that felt almost dangerous. ‘Can you promise me something?’
‘What?’ I asked quietly, my heart beating faster in my chest.
‘Promise me you’ll ask for help if you need it,’ he said, his words measured but tone so focused I could almost feel his eyes burning through the line. ‘From me. Not the cops. Not anyone else – me.’
I hesitated, the intensity of his request winding around me and pulling tight.
He knew that the system was too complicated to offer the kind of protection I needed. He wasn’t just asking, he was demanding it, in that quiet, commanding way of his, as though he wouldn’t accept anything less than my agreement.
Because he had seen a second chance in my predicament – something that might bring him out of the horrors of his past. Perhaps saving me, the way he’d once tried to save his mother, was what he thought might set him free.
But I wasn’t his mum.
‘Cain…’ I wasn’t sure what to say to that. No one had ever said anything like that to me before.
‘Promise me, Paula,’ he interrupted, firm but not harsh. ‘Whatever it is. However bad. Call me. Me.’
The vulnerability in his words was subtle, barely hidden, but it was there. He wasn’t just offering; he was asking for something in return. Trust.
A lump curled in my throat. ‘Okay,’ I said finally, my voice cracking. ‘I promise.’
The dull silence on the other end of the line settled in my chest. But before it could stretch too long, I could almost hear his smirk.
‘That’s a good girl,’ he said.
And the words went straight to my core, completely dissolving the fear, the confusion and the warmth of salvation, only to replaced by a burst of something impossible.
Then he added louder in recovery, ‘Good. That’s good.’ A deep breath. ‘Now that we’ve got that settled,’ he said, his voice curling with dry amusement, ‘let’s not make a habit of you threatening me with a gun. If you wanted my attention, all you had to do was ask, not aim.’
I blinked. ‘What?’
He let out a low, mischievous chuckle that rolled down the line like sin. ‘The convention night.’
My cheeks flared so fast and hot I could’ve lit a bloody candle. ‘Oh God… I didn’t even apologise. I’m so sorry about that, I was—I mean, my defence mechanism is just—’
‘Paula,’ he interrupted. His tone gentler, but still amused. ‘Don’t change that defence mechanism. It should be there.’
I stilled. I wasn’t sure what that meant – not entirely. But something in his voice made me stop dissecting it.
We didn’t stop talking.
I snuggled into the same spot he’d occupied earlier, and traced the hem of my nightdress with restless fingers. His presence still lingered in the cushions, in the air, and I couldn’t explain the sudden ache in my chest. As though if I didn’t say what was on my mind now, the words would fester.
Tracing the bloodstain on the armrest, still feeling the warmth of his hand there, I took a deep breath and went for it.
‘Your dad…’ I paused, and I could all but hear him stiffening from the other end. ‘Want to know what I think?’
‘Go on,’ he said without hesitation, ready for the blow.
‘Donate your blood,’ I said. It wasn’t even a suggestion. It was something I felt in my gut – carved deep into the marrow. ‘It’s the right thing to do.’
‘I can’t go back there.’
He said it so simply, but the words scraped as if they hurt more than he let on.
I let it breathe for a beat.
‘I’ll go with you.’
‘Paula,’ he started, and the way he said my name, as if he was still trying to wrap his head around what I’d offered… it struck something sharp and tender in me. And I knew I couldn’t let this go now that he let me in. ‘This isn’t your problem. You don’t need to—’
‘Don’t give me that bullshit, D’Angelo,’ I cut in with a firmer note. ‘You want to be my knight in shining armour? Fine. But I’ll be yours too. Or no deal.’
There was another streak of long silence.
And then, softer, closer somehow—
‘Actually,’ he murmured, voice slipping into velvet, ‘you’d look good in armour.’
I laughed.
‘Good night, D’Angelo.’
‘Good night.’
Hanging up was hard.
Something flurry and restless nestled in my sternum that wouldn’t let me settle.
I couldn’t sleep at all. Cain had been at the forefront of my mind. A real man – flesh and blood – with his faults and virtues laid bare. Ghost, for all his allure, was only ever an echo of desire – that was as fleeting as it was hollow. Unreal. And, for the first time, I resented the fantasy.
I couldn’t shake the feeling of deliberate betrayal towards Cain for even entertaining the thought of seeing Ghost again, which I clearly wasn’t. The memory of him walking out the door flashed before my eyes in punctuation.
Without giving myself time to overthink it, I grabbed my phone, guilt and relief warring inside me as I typed a message to Gianna that I was safe.
I found myself staring at the screen, biting my nails, every second stretching into an eternity.
A part of me wanted to text him again, my finger hovering over his name.
But I called the nearest takeaway instead and blessed the gods of junk food that I’d be getting my guilty pleasure in ten minutes.
Too wound up to go to sleep, I poured myself some wine and wiped the dried drop of coffee on the counter – suddenly reminded of Vinnie’s advances not long ago.
Gritting my teeth, I realised this was going to be a dangerous edge to walk – Cain on one end, Vinnie on the other. Shit…
Just as I was about to reach for my robe, my phone lit up, the vibration rattling against my palm. My heart jumped, half-expecting it to be Ghost – but he didn’t have my personal number.
My uncle’s name screamed back at me in thick, bold letters. It froze me in place, considering it was nearly morning. And knowing my uncle never called at an indecent hour, a sense of dread curled in my gut.
I hesitated.
‘Zio?’ My voice wavered slightly when I answered.
‘Niece,’ he began in Italian, his tone steady but carrying an edge of concern that immediately put me on high alert. ‘Sorry if I woke you.’
‘No, I was up.’
‘I just got a call from my friend at the border patrol.’
My grip tightened on the phone. There was a long pause, long enough for the tension to knot my stomach. Then he spoke, his words heavy and wary.
‘A man by the name of Travis James Harris arrived in the country two weeks ago.’
The floor seemed to drop away, a cold wave breaking through my chest as the name sank in. It was him. The one who had shattered me, bruised me, and left me piecing myself back together. A name I’d worked so hard to bury, a phantom I never wanted to face again.
Air caught in my throat, my knees threatened to buckle.
‘No…’ I whispered, more to myself. My chest threatening to cave in as if the mere memory had the power to reach out and crushed the ribs there all over again.
The angelic mask back in Obsidian flashed before my eyes.
‘Yes,’ my uncle said grimly, switching to English.
‘I am in Turkey at the moment, Paula.’ His voice softened slightly, as if he could sense the terror spilling through the line.
‘I can’t get to you. Gianna’s asleep and won’t answer her phone.
Is there somewhere you can go tonight? I don’t want you alone. ’
Of course not.
‘Thank you for telling me,’ I said, my voice thin and barely holding steady. ‘I’ll… I’ll handle it.’