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Something was going on in the bedroom. I feared someone had broken in through the fire escape and was hurting Candy, so crossing the room in a handful of strides, I stopped myself short of kicking the door down. Slowly, I turned the knob and peered into the room through the crack.
Folding my wings away, I stepped into the room. “What are you doing?” I asked coolly.
Candy whipped around, accidentally dropping the drawer to the ground she had been riffling through. My eyes did a sweep of the room before resting on Candy again.
She looked afraid.
She should be.
The room had been turned upside down, and it didn’t take a sixth sense to figure out she was looking for money or anything valuable she could sell.
“Zaqiel, I—”
“I brought you into my home, offered you sanctuary, and this is how you repay me?” My voice reflected the coldness I felt inside. It was another reminder that it was becoming increasingly difficult to give humanity the benefit of the doubt.
“You rejected me,” she spat.
“So you’re robbing me?” I almost laughed.
Candy straightened, defiance in her face. She was so sure she wasn’t doing anything wrong and was justified in her actions, all because I wouldn’t sleep with her. I shook my head—that logic made no sense. But then again, I had learned some people could twist the truth around in their minds and convince themselves that no matter what, they were righteous.
I didn’t pick Candy for one of those people.
Her motives for coming to this end of the city had been pure. Had she been corrupted by the darkness in this world, or was there always darkness residing within her? I had allowed many people to stay the night in my place, homeless men and women of varying ages and races, people who were down on their luck and simply needed someone to show them some kindness.
Not one of them had tried to rob me.
“You disappoint me,” I said.
“Oh, fuck you, Zaqiel, like you’re so fucking perfect.”
“Get out of my apartment.”
“Fine.” She kicked a book across the floor like a child throwing a tantrum, and I stepped aside, keeping my arms crossed over my chest as she snatched her clothes from the back of the chair. When she was at the door, she turned and looked at me, the defiance replaced with a pout and wide innocent eyes. She blinked at me a few times, keeping the pout planted firmly in place. I cocked an eyebrow at her, and the expression evaporated, replaced with indignant rage. She slammed the door behind her.
I sighed and went about cleaning up the mess she left behind. Hopefully, it would distract me from the messIleft behind.
EVIE
The cheap vodka probably helped, as I must have fallen asleep eventually.
At least I was numb again.
It occurred to me as I lay in the place between sleeping and waking that Tyson hadn’t come for me. He said if I didn’t go back to him by last night, he’d send the boys after me, but no one had come. It sounded like a blessing, but I had a horrible feeling it was a trick, and the consequences now would be much worse than if I had just given in and returned yesterday.
But yesterday was gone, and Zaqiel was gone, along with any hope I had left in whatever remained of my heart.
When I woke, I started drinking again. I’d never been a huge drinker, so my tolerance was quite low. Half a bottle later, and I was swaying. Sitting in the middle of my mattress, it took me longer than it should have to realize I had let the bottle go loose in my fingers, and it was spilling out onto the sheets.
Whatever.
I welcomed the numbness.
I could live like this, drink myself into a stupor, and go back to work for Tyson. Maybe someone would kill me, or I’d drink myself to death. Maybe the scars would all eventually catch up to me, and one day it would be one scar, one injury too many, and my body would give up.
I was responsible for the marks on my wrists—it had been my attempt to get out.
Social services had wanted otherwise, hospitalizing me and keeping me under surveillance before removing me from that home. Then they shunted me from that home to another, and another, repeatedly until I was eighteen and could leave the system. Not all foster families were bad. Some of them were truly caring and kind and wanted nothing but the best for the children they took in. I know these homes existed because I heard about them.
