Angel Blood

25- Hurricane of Emotion

Sin City sits right in the middle of the city which is oddly convenient because of all the abandoned buildings tucked into street corners. I never spent time considering what I was going to do when I got out, where I was going to go. I think deep down I never expected I'd make it this far. Although they're creepy as hell, I know they'll be my only chance for a roof over my head until I can figure something else out. Maybe there's a homeless shelter around here?

There's no way I can go home to the angel bloods. Not only do they think I'm dead—they'd probably cheer Sin on as he puts a gun to my head. I can't imagine it would make them feel any better after finding out I'd laid with him, something apparent from the love bites Sin peppered across my neck and chest days ago.

I sigh, rubbing my bare arms from the slight nip in the air. The sleeveless tube top does nothing to stop the chill from seeping into my skin.

I'm far enough away that it should be difficult to find me. I've been running for so long that my legs feel weak with effort, the fatigue of such strenuous exercise wearing at the edges of my mind.

My head throb with exhaustion. I need to find a place to settle down and soon. Keeping my eyes open is beginning to take more effort than I can muster.

Somehow my feet find the effort to carry me down the darkened street. It's deathly quiet, the only sound the scrape of my heels against the sidewalk. It must be some ungodly hour of the night which might be nice for some late-night clubbing but doesn't fare so well for the other parts of the city. All the usually bustling shops have emptied out, their doors shut for the night and their windows dark.

"You alright over there?"

I startle at the voice behind me, turning my head so fast I nearly give myself whiplash. A man steps out from the shadow of one of the shops, his hands tucked into the pockets of his leather jacket. His brown hair is cropped close to his head, his features pleasant but forgettable. Small lips, large nose, oval face. Purely human.

I take a step back anyway, watching warily as his eyes drag down my body. "I'm fine."

"Is that..." he squints at my fingers before I tuck them behind my back. "Is that blood?"

"No," I lie. Terse silence draws between us.

"Right," he draws. "You trying to get away from someone, honey? You've got this look on your face like someone's got a gun pointed at your head."

Hand still behind my back, I shake my head. The wrinkle feels permanently etched between my brows as I uselessly try to relax the muscles of my face. As much as I try to push away the sensation, the roiling storm of loss and betrayal refuse to cease in my chest.

"Do you need somewhere to go? I live upstairs."

I squint at the sign behind him, the wooden bowl of noodles hard to make out in the darkness. "You live in a ramen shop?"

"Above," he says, gesturing to a brightly lit window a floor up. "The owner rents the extra space out to me. I just stepped out for some fresh air."

I hesitate. He looks normal enough and Sin would never think to check in some stranger's apartment but something in my gut clenches at the thought of going with him.

I bite my lip, taking a small step back. "I appreciate the offer but I don't think—"

"I have medical supplies for you. If you need them." I stare at him until he blinks and gestures to my hidden arm. "For your hand."

Oh. I guess I'm better off if he thinks it's my own blood. Having to run from the cops and an angry demon sounds like too much, even for me. "I'll be okay. Thanks though."

I start to turn away but he takes a stride forward. "You sure you don't need a coat or anything? Food?" He pauses, wincing at the bewildered look on my face. "I've seen my sister in a similar situation. I know how it is."

I stare at him for a moment, too baffled to speak. "What?"

"The scared look on your face says it all, honey. Not to mention that hand. I know abuse when I see it."

"Abuse?" The accusation causes the red-hot bite of anger to rise in my veins before I remember who Sinclair is—and more importantly, who I am to him. I take a deep breath, forcing myself to relax. "Oh. Right."

He stares expectantly at me with those too-big brown eyes. As genuine as he seems, something doesn't seem quite right about this. It all feels too good to be true.

I wrap my arms around my torso, causing a small amount of cleavage to push up with the motion. The man's eyes flicker down, lingering on my chest and slithering down the bare skin of my arms.

A shiver rolls down my spine. Yeah, there's no way in hell I'm going to willingly spend another second alone with this man.

"I appreciate the offer. But I need to go. Really." I turn around, not bothering to spare him another glance as I start back on my way down the empty street.

"Hold on a second, okay?" Warm, slightly damp fingers wrap around my wrist, pulling me back a few steps.

Something fearsome slithers from my stomach and up to my throat. It's hot and dangerous and ugly, demanding that I do something violent and incredibly stupid.

I'm tired of people thinking they can claim me. Thinking that they can do with me what they please, dragging me around like a dog on a leash.

My fist whips back on its own accord. I don't even realize my arm is in action until my knuckles connect with the soft flesh of his face, cartilage cracking loudly underneath my fingers.

He stumbles back, clutching an ashen hand to his face. "What the fuck?"

My hands clench at my sides, shaking lightly with excess rage. It dims with the sight of him hunched over so brokenly, crimson splattering onto the pale sheath of sidewalk under our feet.

Jesus. Sometimes I forget my divine blood makes me strong. It's so easy to glaze over when you're surrounded by demons who can kill you with a flick of their wrist.

A tiny trickle of regret weasels its way past the anger. The man's creepy as hell but he doesn't deserve this. To have his face bashed in because he's a little too pushy about offering a hand to someone in need.

Christ, I'm a mess.

I'm a hurricane of emotion as I turn around. How is it possible to feel so terrible yet so numb at the same time?

Thinking about it makes the sensation worse. So I stop, tune out the sound of the man's pained whimpers, and run.

...

I can tell the house has been abandoned for years. Someone's already kicked in the window so climbing inside is only as hard as avoiding the jagged pieces of glass that snag at my clothing and threaten to scrape my skin.

It's pitch black inside aside from the small swatch of moonlight that highlights a tiny strip of garbage-filled floor and graffiti-painted walls. A chill rolls down my spine at the empty soda bottles and pile of needles that sit in the opposite corner of the room. God, I hope that those aren't recent; that whoever they belong to doesn't plan on coming back anytime soon.

The idea of wandering into the void-like darkness fills my chest with a deep sense of unease so instead I slide down the wall next to the window, wearily eying the small amount of light highlighting the ravaged room. As much as the idea of having no idea what might linger beyond fills me with terror, the extreme fatigue behind my eyes forces me ignore the sensation and sag against the wall. It's so cold and I'm so exhausted that my eyelids flutter even as I attempt to keep them pried open.

I've never felt like this in my life. I've never imagined anyone could feel so sad and angry and hopeless as I do now.

A sob climbs up my chest, scraping my dry throat as it rips free. They don't stop until my eyes forcefully shut and I slump over, covered in blood, dirt, cheeks soaked with tears.