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But when he placed his hand on her swollen belly and declared her third son the Devil, she’d soured into a skeptic.
he’d refused to name me after an angel like my brothers. Something about blasphemy and poor taste. But my mama had a way of making spite look pretty, and named me after her favorite angel of all.
It’s got me wondering about stupid shit, like alternate realities and butterfly wings and what would have happened if I’d been the first or second child. If I hadn’t been born at all.
Its roar is deafening and cold, but when I cock my head, I hear something softer within it. “Hello?”
It’s her
The voice is like cashmere and chocolate. Like a gentle kiss on the cheek, a warm bath on an icy night. “Hello? Are you okay?” It’s a ray of sunshine through an open window, a cool breeze on a hot day. I want to die to its soundtrack. I want to hear it again.
Under the next streetlamp stands a girl. No—an angel. Not one of those biblically accurate ones they’d draw on the whiteboard to scare the shit out of us in Sunday school, but one from the movies. The human-shaped, heaven-sent kind with outstretched wings and a halo hovering over flowing blonde hair. She’s also wearing a fuzzy pink jacket and matching earmuffs, but fuck, who am I to question what angels wear these days?
It’s October thirty-first. Halloween. Of course I’d die on Halloween.
Sparkly pink boots and frilly socks pulsate in and out of focus beneath my eye line. Christ. So much pink.
I’m as unlovable as I am untouchable. So why the fuck is she now touching me?
AHHHHH
Fuck. Maybe she is an angel. Because I swear, the streetlamp above wasn’t as bright until she dropped to her knees beneath it. Now it bends to accommodate the curves of her heart-shaped face and reflects in her wide blue eyes, like sunlight dancing on water.
A final taunt of what could have been had I been born Angelo or Rafe. But then I dismiss the idea immediately, because He’s not stupid enough to send her to a man like me. He wouldn’t take the risk.
Ooop
She freezes, and for a second, fear threads through her perfect features, but when her eyes climb up my torso and lock with mine, her expression changes shape, and I don’t fucking like it.
Yesssss
Her voice is breathy and restrained as it cuts through the ringing in my ears. “I’ve got to apply pressure to the wound, but my hands are too small. I’m going to have to sit on you.” “No—”
IM DEAD
She’s touching me again. Skin to skin. The fingers I desperately wanted to snap now rest on the hollows of my cheeks. Her thumb tracks over the same two inches, dipping in and out of my beard in an unfamiliar, soothing, stroking motion.
AHHH
The pain returns, but it’s dull and misplaced. My torso throbs a little less, but now it hurts where she touches, a slow-moving burn seeping through skin and bone and bloating every cell between. No, it doesn’t feel better. It feels worse than dying.
And even if they were, they never looked at me like this girl is gazing at me now. She regards me with this wide-eyed concern, as though she’s seeing the worst of humanity for the first time and is certain she can fix it.
Annoyance darkens my edges. She shouldn’t be out here, at this hour, looking like … that. She’s an angel with broken wings, and I couldn’t count on both blood-stained hands the number of men I know who would snatch her off these streets in half a heartbeat.
Ooooo protective already
“Do you stop and chat to every strange man you meet on a dark road?” “When they’re bleeding like a waterfall, sure.” “Well, you shouldn’t.” Her gaze falls to mine, sparkling with amusement. “But aren’t you glad I did?”
Oop
“All right. Listen, then.” Something foreign probes at my ear. “No—” “Shh.” My protest melts under the palm on my cheek. I swear, all the good in the world is behind it. It seeps through my skin and churns my blood into butter.
But I’m too busy staring at her mouth to register the nonsense seeping out of it. “Fuck, you’re beautiful.”
AHHHHHHH
A bitter amusement filters through me. “You hear that all the time.” “Yes, but tell me again.”
She breathes out on a shaky whisper, “You’re actually going to die, aren’t you?” “I will with that attitude.”
She leans in. So fucking close that she steals one of my last breaths from me. An inch more, and I’d feel those lips on mine and taste the strawberry scent of her gloss. “Can I tell you a secret?”
The moment’s too perfect, she’s too perfect. I ruin everything I fucking touch, and I don’t want to ruin her.
For the briefest of moments, I think it’s God coming to get her. I glare at the sky and consider the consequences of stealing from Him. Then the chopper cuts across my eye line and amusement bleeds through me.
For the first time since Mama died, all three syllables bubble up my throat. “Gabriel.” She shields her eyes with her hands and smiles. “Gabriel, like the angel?” I laugh. She laughs. “I’m Wren.” Wren.
AHHHH
Wren. Her name carves into my heart and etches into my skin. I hope the Devil allows keepsakes in hell, because fuck, I’m taking it with me.
“Do you think we’ll get a White Christmas this year?” Leah’s spine arches under my palm as she retches like a cat. My smile widens as I pretend not to notice. “I suppose it’s too early to tell.”
“Wren?” “Yeah?” She lets out a stuttered breath. “Someone’s watching us.” “Huh? Who?” “I-I don’t know.”
Its him!
“I’m not talking about the film, I’m talking about him. The Boogeyman of the Devil’s Coast.”
I recognize those eyes—only, I don’t. It’s a weird, fleeting feeling.
That gaze … it’s glassy. Magnetic. Certain. And then I have this slow, syrup-like feeling it didn’t find me by chance.
In real life, monsters don’t live in the dark; they live in the light. They hold your hair back when you’re puking. They bake cakes, make signs, volunteer in hospitals. And sometimes, they even wear pink.
beneath them, a cutout of Angelo Visconti’s face is stuck to a dart board. He glares over at me, clearly not amused that we’re using his likeness for a cruder version of Pin the Tail on the Donkey.
“Hey, who’s been kissing my husband?” I follow her glare to Angelo’s cutout, which is now covered in messy lipstick prints. I laugh and squeeze her knee. “Relax, you’re the only one smooching the real deal, honey.”
Their first date—a moonlit dinner on the beach—was magic. For their second, he whisked her off to New York, where they had their first kiss atop the Empire State Building, the wind roaring in their ears. They made love for the first time under the stars in Paris, then he declared his love for her as they wandered, hand in hand, through the cobbled streets of Rome.
God i love angelo
Only when she breezed into The Rusty Anchor, a handsome Visconti in her shadow, did I get the full story.
From the moment I looked up, Angelo hasn’t taken his eyes off of his fiancée, nor has that satisfied smirk left his lips. As he steps off the dance floor and reaches our booth, my heart skips a beat.
GOD I LOVE THIS MAN
Is this how he looked at her the night they met? Because, sweet Lord, if a man looked at me like that, I’d fall—no, jump—off the face of the earth with him for three months too.
“We had a meeting nearby.” “We absolutely did not have a meeting nearby,” a velvet voice drawls. I turn to find its owner. Raphael Visconti steps out of the crowd, casts an amused glance at the table spread, then winks at me.
AND RAFE TO IM IN HEAVEN
He presses his lips to my cheek. “Looking as beautiful as ever, Wren.”
Arp arp
Rafe stretches his arms out. “Tayce. Looking as beautiful as—” “Shut it, asshole. You and him”—she jabs a finger toward Angelo—“aren’t supposed to be here.”
Rafe locks eyes with his brother, then slowly puts down the pink fluffy handcuffs he was inspecting. A disco light sweeps over a tight muscle in his jaw, then down to his clenched fist, but by the time he looks up, he’s all teeth and charm, then I think I imagined it.
I scan for blonde curls and sequins, and eventually, find her in a dark, quiet corner, trapped between a jagged wall and Angelo’s broad silhouette. My gaze lingers. Then it sticks.
Even the strobe light is working in slow motion. It crawls up inked skin, over an angry scar, up to an unwavering stare. Green.
The light sweeps over this trifecta on a lethargic loop. I’ve seen it before, only illuminated by different lighting. Lit by the lone match in the parking lot earlier, but also—
The street lamp
Hands meet my waist, green spins into sparkles and a slur of metallic pink. I’m facing the direction of the bar again, only this time, I’m not looking at Dan but Rafe.
Rafe glances down at me in amusement before spinning me in a full circle. Ink. Scar. Green. My socks slide on the mirrored floor, and I crash into Rafe’s chest, but he’s quick to steady me. “Whoa, easy there.” His gaze darts south, and he frowns. “Where are your shoes?”
Rafe looks over my shoulder and cocks a brow. “Who, Gabe?” Gabe.
AHHHH
My eyes drop to his lips. I don’t want to miss a single syllable of his answer. “He’s my brother.” My ears ring. Ink, scar, green.
AHHHH
