Page 12 of Angel’s Claim

I drop my backpack on the bed and head into the bathroom. It's small, just a toilet, sink, and shower with a plastic curtain, but it's clean, and right now that's all that matters.

I turn on the water and wait for it to heat up. While I wait, I catch sight of myself in the mirror above the sink.

I look like hell.

My hair is a mess. Half falling out of the bun I tried to twist it into this morning, strands stuck to my face and neck. My eyes are red-rimmed and exhausted, and there's a faint mark on my wrist where Dusty grabbed me earlier.

I touch it gently, and something cold settles in my stomach.

That could have gone so much worse.

If Angel hadn't been there. If he hadn't stepped in. If he'd been the kind of man who minded his own business and let other people handle their own problems…

I don't let myself finish that thought.

The water is hot now, steam fogging up the mirror. I strip out of the Fleetwood Mac shirt and sweatpants, gently hang Angel's cut on the hook behind the door, and step into the shower.

The heat is perfect. I stand under the spray and let it wash away the last twelve hours. All the panic, the adrenaline, the shitty bus station, the wedding I didn't go to, the phone calls I didn't answer.

I wash my hair with the tiny motel shampoo bottle and scrub my skin until it's pink and I feel a little more like a person again. When I finally turn off the water, the bathroom is full of steam, my fingers are pruned and I feel lighter than I have in months.

I dry off with the scratchy motel towel and pull my sweatpants and T-shirt back on. I should have grabbed pajamas when I left, but I wasn't thinking that far ahead. I wasn't thinking at all, really. I just knew I had to go.

I brush my teeth with the spare toothbrush I shoved in my backpack, one of the few smart decisions I made, and stare at myself in the now-clear mirror.

"You did it," I say out loud to my reflection. "You actually left."

My reflection stares back, wide-eyed and uncertain.

I turn off the bathroom light and head back into the bedroom. The clock on the nightstand says 11:47 PM. It feels like days since this morning, since I was supposed to be walking down an aisle in a dress that cost more than most people's cars.

I wonder if they went ahead with the reception anyway. If my father made excuses to the guests, blamed me for being flighty and irresponsible, promised Chase's parents that he'd find me and fix this.

I wonder if Chase even cares that I'm gone.

Probably not. He never cared when I was there.

I plug my phone into the charger. I grabbed that much at least, but I don't turn it on. I'm not ready for the flood of messages yet. Not ready to hear my father's disappointment, Victoria's fury or Chase's indifference dressed up as concern.

Tomorrow. I'll deal with it tomorrow.

I climb into bed and pull the covers up to my chin. The mattress is lumpy and the comforter smells faintly of industrial detergent, but I don't care.

Angel said he'd come back tomorrow.

I fall asleep wearing his cut over my T-shirt, the leather warm and heavy against my shoulders, and I don't have nightmares.

Next Day

I wake up to sunlight streaming through the thin motel curtains and my phone buzzing on the nightstand.

For a moment, I don't know where I am.

Then I remember.

Millhaven. The motel. Angel.

I'm not getting married today.