Page 29 of Angel’s Claim

Terrified that I made the wrong choice. Terrified that I can't do this on my own. Terrified that Angel is going to show up at seven and take one look at me and realize I'm too broken to be worth the trouble.

I’m so overwhelmed that I don't hear the knock on the door at first. It's only when it comes again, louder, more insistent, that I realize someone's there.

I sit up quickly, wiping at my face with shaking hands. My eyes are swollen, my cheeks are wet, and I probably look like absolute hell.

The knock comes a third time.

"Bree?" Angel's voice, muffled through the door. "You in there?"

Oh God.

It's already seven o'clock.

He's here.

And I'm a complete mess.

I stand up on shaking legs and walk to the door, catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror as I pass. My face is red and blotchy, my eyes are puffy, and there are tear tracks down my cheeks.

I look exactly like someone who's been crying for the last twenty minutes.

I take a breath and open the door. Angel is standing there in the same black T-shirt and jeans from this morning, and the second he sees my face, his expression changes.

The easy smile drops. His jaw tightens. His eyes go sharp and focused, scanning me from head to toe like he's checking for injuries.

"What happened?" he asks, and his voice is low and dangerous.

"Nothing, I…" My voice breaks, and fresh tears start falling before I can stop them.

Angel steps inside and closes the door behind him. He doesn't ask permission. He just moves into my space like he belongs there, and before I can say anything else, he's pulling me against his chest.

I collapse into him.

My hands fist in his T-shirt, and I bury my face against his shoulder and cry like I haven't cried in years. He wraps his arms around me, one hand between my shoulder blades, the other cradling the back of my head, and holds me like I'm something precious.

"I've got you," he murmurs into my hair. "I've got you. You're okay."

But I'm not okay.

I'm so far from okay I can't even see it from here.

"I'm sorry," I manage between sobs. "I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to—"

"Don't," he says firmly. "Don't apologize. Just breathe."

I try. I suck in a shaky breath that turns into another sob, and Angel's arms tighten around me.

"That's it," he whispers. "Just breathe. I'm not going anywhere."

I don't know how long we stand there. Long enough for the sobs to slow. Long enough for my breathing to even out. Long enough for me to realize that he smells like leather and engine oil, and that his chest is solid and warm.

When I finally pull back, his T-shirt is soaked with my tears.

"I'm sorry," I say again, gesturing at the wet spot on his chest.

"I don't care about the shirt." His hands move to my shoulders, and he dips his head slightly so we're at eye level. "Tell me what happened."

"I turned on my phone," I whisper.