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Panicked, my hands grip my angel's arms, searching through her blood, before finding her neck. I had to make sure the blood was still pumping through her veins, that she hadn't lost too much of it.
Hell, I would cut myself open and bleed myself dry if that's what she needed. Give her the blood from my own heart if that's what kept hers beating. At this point, I wasn't even sure mine would work if hers stopped. It was attached to her like a trophy wife was to old bald rich men. That shit was legally bound. We had a contract and I’d be damned if I let her leave me like this.
“Wake up Blondie. We have a deal. You're not leaving me like this.” I growl the words, my vocal cords miraculously able to produce sound, and tried not to lose my shit when I received no response.
Her silence was like a poison that was slowly killing me. She was trying to kill me with her uncooked porridge, my Goldie Locks. She was trying to kill me and it was working.
I reach my hand out to grab hers, threading her blood-covered fingers with my own. Urging her to hold on. To hold on to me. To take the very life from my veins and use it in her own frail form.
It was hers anyways. It was all hers.
I squeeze her hand and nearly weep when I feel a pulse down in my palm and look down to see her hand gripping mine. Her pink sparkly nails dig into mine and I think I might lose my head to the flicker of hope that enters my icy bones. Her eyes flutter open and my lungs decide to flip the switch and turn on again, the air I’d rented to her pumping through my lungs again.
“What- what happened?” Her words are raspy and hollow and I’ve never heard a sound more fucking satisfying in my life. Shit, I would convert to drinking Starbucks, doom my world to a lifetime of weak caffeinated beverages, if it meant I could spend the rest of it hearing that sound.
The sound of her voice.
She looks down at herself and my heart squeezes as her ocean eyes fill with terror.
“What- what is this?” She pats herself down, her movements becoming frantic with each swipe of her hand across her Stone Roses T-shirt. I love her indie band tees. It was like she was a dirty CD I found in the back of my Ford 150, I just wanted to play her over and over again.
“I’m calling 911,” I state with no room for argument. We needed to get Blondie to the hospital ASAP. Hell, I’d haul her over my shoulder and toss her in my truck if that's what it took to get my stubborn Tinkerbell to the intensive care unit.
“Wait-” she grabs my arm before I can pull my phone out of my jeans,
“It’s paint,” she whispers,
I look at her like she's medusa and has grown three heads,
“It's paint.” She says again, relief showering her tone. “It's just paint.” And then she's laughing, a cruel broken little sound, and my heart hurts at the pain my pixie is feeling.
“What-” I start before yanking on her arm and pulling her towards me.
The hell?
What I had mistaken for blood in my panic was really nothing more than a thick layer of red acrylic paint. The bastards must have doused her with it and left her unconscious for me to find.
Those pansy asses would die buried in a garden of my own making.
My head is spinning with revenge fantasies. Hey, sometimes it paid to be a nineteen-year-old twisted kid with a king complex. And I couldn't wait to make these assholes bleed out. Slowly.
But my murderous thoughts are put on hold as my pixie loses her fairy dust and crumples before me. The loss of belief in herself is enough to suck the power out of her. I pull her into my arms, staining my shirt and the ends of my hair red as I do, but I couldn't give less of a fuck. My fairy needed me. She needed me to be her wings. She needed me to be the one person who still believed in her.
“They took everything.” She almost sobs, the tears pooling in her eyes but not falling as she grips my shirt with her tiny fists.
“They took everything I am. Every painting. Every sketchbook. They took it all.” She turns fully to me, wrapping her legs around my hips and I groan at the advantage our new position holds, but now was not the time for my perverted thoughts (although I couldn't help it if Blondie made me horny as fuck),
“And what they didn't take, they destroyed.” Her shoulders slump and my jaw clenches.
“How am I supposed to save her? How?” Her voice cracks on the last word and I didn’t think it was possible for one man's heart to feel this much pain on another's behalf.
Suddenly, I found myself wishing I was Peter Pan, not Captain Hook, and knew how to comfort her. Knew how to breathe her back to life with a warm gesture. But monsters didn't know how to be warm, we were cold soulless things, so I was forced to watch as my angel's heart broke before me. My own cold limp heart outstretched for her in a cruel gesture of comfort.
I knew she was referring to her mother. The very one my background check on her had shown me was “recovering” in that damn mental hospital. The thought that someone had put her there against her and her mother's wishes was enough to make my blood boil. That Blondie was in such a mess, all alone at that, and someone wanted to continue to take from her was an issue I would gladly devote a whole chapter to in my journal of sins.
“I’ve failed her.” She mumbles, her delicate hands resting on my neck.
Her pouty lips are covered in red paint and I have the sudden urge to capture them with my teeth, to distract her from the pain in the only way I knew how, by giving her pleasure. But I knew it wouldn't be enough this time. She had just had everything taken from her. She would need time to rebuild. To fortify her walls. To build back her strength until she was a gleaming weapon of destruction and could take back what she had lost.
