Chapter 20: His Angel: Chapter 20

Heavy and thick as tar, the darkness presses in, and I’m running. My bare feet slap against the wet stone, my lungs burning, the air too thin to hold me.

Blood streaks the walls, dripping slowly, pooling at my toes. The pews are splintered, the stained glass glinting red. And my dress…the white wedding dress…blood is seeping through the fabric from the inside, staining the pristine lace with a grotesque hue of crimson.

Is it mine?

Is it my blood?

Then I hear it—a gurgling choke, a scream swallowed by silence. I run toward it, heart racing, panic surging, and when I see him, I come to a complete stop.

Anthony’s sprawled on the church floor, his bright eyes now dull, his throat torn open, red spilling like paint across the white tile. I reach for him, my fingers trembling, but he’s fading, slipping away, and the lies twist around me like chains, whispering…

“You did this, you lied, you killed him.”

Luna barks. She’s frantic, her floppy ears dragging through the blood, her paws skittering as she runs from me, her howl fading into the dark. And I’m screaming so loudly my ears hurt, his name bleeding from my lips, “Anthony! Anthony!” But it’s just echoes, just death, just⁠—

I jolt awake, a gasp ripping from my throat, and the room spins—walls tilting, shadows lunging. My chest heaves, each breath a jagged shard slicing through my lungs, and I’m crying—hot, choking sobs that tangle with the air I can’t catch.

The sheets cling to my skin, soaked with sweat, twisting around my legs like they’re trying to drag me back into the nightmare. I’m clawing at my throat, nails digging in, desperate to pull oxygen past the vise clamping my ribs, but it’s stuck, a wheeze scraping out, thin and shrill, like a whistle lost in a storm.

“Anthony,” I sob, the name spilling out, raw and broken, over and over. “Anthony, there’s blood—lies—death—Luna—she’s gone—there’s so much blood⁠—”

The mattress shifts, and Isaia’s voice cuts through the fog, a lifeline I can’t grasp. “Everly, baby, you’re okay. You’re here with me.”

His hands find my shoulders, but I flinch, my body jerking as if it’s still trapped in that church, still watching Anthony bleed out.

My eyes dart around the dark room, moonlight slicing through the blinds, Isaia’s face blurred by tears, and I choke again, a ragged gasp that collapses into a cough, my chest caving, air slipping away.

“I can’t…I can’t breathe.” My words tangle, circling, spilling out in a frantic mess. “He’s dead. There’s so much blood, Isaia. Oh, God.” My heart thunders, a brutal, unrelenting drum reverberating within my hollowed chest. It’s deafening, overbearing, and it weighs on me like a gravestone.

Anthony’s gravestone.

My hands scrabble at the sheets, fingers twisting into the fabric, and I’m heaving, chest rattling with shallow, useless breaths.

The room closes in, walls shrinking, air thickening, and my lungs seize, a tight, burning knot that won’t loosen, each wheeze a knife twisting deeper.

Isaia’s hands slide to my face, his calloused palms cupping my cheeks, and his voice drops, cooing, desperate to pull me back.

“Everly, look at me. Focus on me, baby girl.” His thumbs brush my tears, smearing the wet streaks. “You’re okay. You just need to breathe. Focus on breathing.” His breath hitches—quick, shallow—like he’s choking on it too, and his grip tightens, just a little, as if he’s afraid I’ll slip through his fingers.

“I…I can’t—” I gasp, my voice a broken thread, and my chest caves again, a sharp wheeze cutting through the sobs. My throat’s raw, like sandpaper scraping every breath, and my lungs feel like they’re drowning, air trapped behind a wall I can’t break. “I can’t breathe.”

“Fuck.” He shifts fast, one arm wrapping around my waist, pulling me against his chest, but my body trembles, shaking so hard my teeth chatter, and the wheeze turns shrill, a high-pitched whine that fills the room.

His heart pounds against my cheek—fast, erratic—and I feel the tremor in his hands as he fumbles beside the bed, knocking over a glass, the shatter swallowed by my gasps.

“Hold on. I’ve got it—fuck, where is it?” His voice shakes, raw panic bleeding through, and he lunges for the nightstand drawer, yanking it open with a clatter.

My vision blurs, black spots swimming, edges fraying, and my sobs choke into coughs, each one a stab in my chest, my lungs screaming for air that won’t come.

“Got it!” He shakes it, pops the cap, and presses it to my lips. “Now breathe in deep for me, baby girl.” His voice cracks, fear raw and unguarded as he holds my gaze, dark eyes wide and glassy, as if he’s watching me die.

The cool mist floods my mouth as he presses the canister, but my lungs fight it, a burning knot tightening, resisting. My wheeze is a whistle now—high, thin, desperate—and my chest heaves, each breath a shallow stab that doesn’t reach deep enough.

“Fuck, baby, you gotta breathe for me, okay?” His voice breaks, and he presses it once more, his hand steadying my jaw, his thumb digging into my cheek as he forces me to take it.

Isaia’s fear is a living thing etched in the sweat beading on his brow, the way his breath stutters as if he’s running out of air, too.

The mist seeps in—slow, cold, and the knot loosens, just a fraction, oxygen trickling past the burn.

My wheeze softens—still shrill, but less frantic—and I suck in a shaky breath, tears streaming hot down my face, mixing with the sweat soaking my neck. My chest rattles, but the black spots fade, the room steadying as I slump against him, heaving, crying, the nightmare still clawing at my skull.

“Anthony…he’s dead.” The words tumble out, a broken loop, and I’m trembling, my hands fisting his shirt, nails digging into the fabric. “If I trusted him more, if I didn’t lie⁠—”

“Shh, baby girl. Don’t talk, just breathe.” Isaia’s voice is softer now, but he’s pulling me closer, wrapping me tightly against him, his arms a cage I can’t fight.

His breath brushes my hair, and his hand strokes my back, slow circles over the damp cotton of my shirt, trying to soothe the storm I can’t shake. “Just breathe.”

My lungs burn, each breath a shallow rasp, and I press my face into his chest, the steady thud of his heart anchoring me as the wheeze fades to a faint whistle. My sobs slow, but the nightmare’s grip lingers, blood and death and Anthony’s dull eyes flashing behind my lids.

I push back the image and grasp at memories. Good ones. Trying to remember his laugh, the sound of his voice, how he’d always find a way to make me feel safe and appreciated. He did everything for me, gave me everything I needed, like the freedom to find myself—even if it meant him making the sacrifice.

“He gave me Luna,” I whimper and feel Isaia tense. “So I wouldn’t be alone.” Hearing her name, Luna jumps onto the bed, nudging my arm with her cold nose. I scoop her close, burying my fingers in her fur. “He tried to convince me to stay in New York, but when I wouldn’t budge, he surprised me with the cutest puppy I’ve ever seen in my life.”

Fresh tears sting my eyes, clenching my jaw to keep them from falling.

“He was there for me so many times. I don’t know where I’d be if it weren’t for him.” I sniff. “I miss him.”

“Fuck,” Isaia lets go of me and stands, “I can’t do this.”

“Can’t do what?”

“Sit there, holding you while you talk about him.”

I narrow my teary eyes. “He was my friend, Isaia.”

“And the man who tried to take you from me.”

I get to my feet, wiping at my wet cheeks. “He thought I was in danger. He was trying to protect me. That’s all he ever tried to do. And you—” I still, biting my tongue, and Isaia studies me.

“And I what?” he grits out. “I killed him for it?”

“That’s not what I was going to say.”

“Then what?” He holds out his arms, his face etched with hard lines and bitterness. “That I didn’t apologize? I told you, Everly, I will never fucking apologize for⁠—”

“Isaia, stop!” I cry. “Please. Anthony was my best friend, and I lost him.”

His jaw clenches as I say his name.

“No matter how it happened. No matter who told the lies or pulled the trigger, I lost him. And I’m allowed to grieve. I’m allowed to cry. I’m allowed to miss him without worrying you’ll go off the rails because of it.”

Isaia’s face pales, and the stillness in the room is punctuated only by our ragged breaths. He looks stricken, caught between his jealousy and his need to comfort me. I see the struggle etched in his handsome features, in the way he clenches his fists at his side.

“You are my world,” he starts, lips pulled tight. “I love you, Everly. And I’m allowed to hate him. I’m allowed to feel anger, and jealousy, and resentment. I’m allowed to despise every memory you cherish of him. And I’m allowed to be relieved that he’s gone.”

The room seems to shrink, the four walls bearing down on us like the weight of our truths is bleeding into our souls.

“Do you resent me?”

“No.” I lift my gaze to meet his. “I don’t resent you. I resent myself…for loving the man who killed my best friend.”

His eyes flash a swirling medley of emotions too complex to name, and for a moment, I fear he might argue, that he might raise his voice, that he might turn his back and walk away.

“It’s hard,” I continue. “To think of him, and miss him, and wish I could see him just one more time while I’m so deeply in love with you, Isaia, that the thought of living without you is far worse than the reality of living without him.”

His eyes soften slightly, and he takes a step closer. “Everly⁠—”

“Don’t you get it?” I lean my head to the side, hoping he can see the truth in my eyes. “I don’t blame you for what you did. I can’t…not when you were doing the same thing he was.” I sigh, wiping at a tear. “Trying to protect me.”

It’s like time stands still, his gaze never leaving mine, my words adding weight to the air around us. It’s never easy to read him, to try to figure out what he’s feeling, what he’s thinking. The emotional script in his eyes offers a vague inkling, but the deeper context remains shrouded.

Maybe that’s part of the allure, the mystery, the excitement of the unpredictable. But as the silence stretches, an unease seeps in, his gaze growing darker, shadows starting to cling to every line on his face.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, his voice low and fractured.

My heart slams to a dead stop, a hollow thud echoing in my chest as I watch him turn and walk out. The words slice through me—sharp and merciless—each step he takes carving deeper, his silhouette swallowed by the hall’s shadows.

I’m frozen, breath snagged, my mind clawing at his apology, ripping it open. Sorry for what?

For not being able to comfort me when I grieve my friend?

For hating that I miss him.

Or—God help me—did he just whisper regret for pulling the trigger, for spilling my best friend’s blood across that church floor?

I…I don’t know. And I’m not sure I ever will.