Total pages in book: 209
Estimated words: 196141 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 981(@200wpm)___ 785(@250wpm)___ 654(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 196141 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 981(@200wpm)___ 785(@250wpm)___ 654(@300wpm)
On the floor with her back against the wall some distance away, Raya, the source of the anguished sobs. She clutches her bloodied side where half of her left arm is missing, kicking away from the scene with whatever energy remains in her exhausted body, trying to get up, trying to run, failing at both.
And in front of her, at the end of the last branch of the trail of carnage, the broad-shouldered back of a naked man kneeling on the floor, blood dripping from his tangled hair.
Without Tristan even taking another step, the man turns, sensing him.
Brock.
His face like a rabid animal’s, maddened, bathed in blood completely, even his eyes, only a fraction of his whites visible. Flesh and blood hang from his parted lips, revealing a mouth of shattered teeth, some missing. Raya’s severed forearm dangles from his grip like a dog’s bone.
Tristan stares back at him, paralyzed.
Brock is calm at once, as if the sight of Tristan has brought something back to him. His face twists. Tears well in his eyes. “Tristan?” he mumbles through a mouthful of flesh and blood. He forgets the forearm in his grasp, letting it drop to the floor, forgotten. “T-Tristan …?” He rises to his feet, slips on blood, drops back to his knees. “Can you …” He falls forward, props himself up, starts crawling through the gore on his hands and knees. “Can you … help me find my … m-my …”
Brock inches closer and closer, creeping his way down the hall while Raya moans and wails, still kicking away. He reaches Tristan, clings to his boots, bloodying them, lifts his beautiful, horrifying face, blood dripping. “Can you … h-help me …?”
Tristan quickly runs his fingers over Brock’s face. Eyes roll back. He collapses to the floor. After a moment’s shock, Tristan kneels down, gently cradles Brock in his arms just as he had so long ago in the hallway of a Texas high school, surrounded by a nightmare of his doing, Raya’s tormented weeping in his ears.
15.
More Than I Deserve.
—∙—
Kaleb chomps down on the tender piece of meat, its juices running down his chin, savory and cooked to perfection. Then he helps himself to a bite of the most exquisitely seasoned melt-in-your-mouth vegetables he’s ever tasted. Even the water has a crispness to it he cannot describe. Then another bite of tender, juicy meat that falls apart over his gnashing teeth.
This is how his meals have been for the past two days.
“Good evening,” said the man in a fancy suit just last night, whose only purpose in existing seems to be presenting food to Kaleb with overabundant grandeur. “Enjoy our buttered lobster served with our house-made linguine and garlic ciabatta bread.”
“Would you like to browse our choices of wine?” asked the man later on. “Anything you wish.”
“I can fetch you dessert of your choosing,” he also said, his head bowed to Kaleb. “Chocolate, perhaps? Vanilla custard? A fruit dish? Fresh cake? Or perhaps a savory dessert, such as—”
Kaleb slept each night on a full stomach, resting upon what he is sure is the most comfortable mattress that’s ever existed, a perfect balance of firmness to support his back and softness to ease his body. By the second night, he even slept with his door open, feeling the opened door had somehow become a symbol of his new life. And during the daytime, he would spend hours at one of the chairs in the hallway or near one of the large bay windows reading a book about the rise and fall of the Roman Empire. Many would pass by in the hallway, chatting, laughing, or entirely stoic and business-faced—perhaps other associates or employees of the House. Kaleb didn’t know any of them, but he looked up each time one passed and made sure to smile and nod respectfully. He didn’t mind that neither his smile nor nod was ever returned. He felt lucky to be here, begrudging nothing to no one.
Tonight is no exception, as he carries his glass of wine back to his room, sets it on a side table, then picks up his violin and decides to practice. As promised, someone had come to replace the stiff violin with his old used one from the cells. The familiar strings are so much easier on his fingers, and he feels one with the instrument as he teases an improvised tune out of its supple body, the strings seeming to sing with so little effort.
He hasn’t dreamed about the fire in days, nor the face of the angel who saved him from it.
Kaleb relishes in the warm water of the shower as he bathes and lathers soap over his body. He smiles into the mirror as he dries off, hugs the soft towel, rubs his hair, inspects his face. He sits on the end of his bed wearing just underwear—the cleanest and softest underwear imaginable—and reads the next chapter in a book he plucked off the shelf. It is a story, serendipitously, about an angel come down from the heavens to live among the mortals, but finds himself conflicted when he falls in love with a troubled woman he can’t seem to help. Each time he tries, her life becomes worse. Kaleb can’t help but picture his own angel in the role of this character—a man with short blond hair, tangled and artfully messy, with hazy blue eyes that seem just as caring and magical as they do mysterious. Even during the darker parts of the story, Kaleb finds himself riveted, excited to see how the angel will strive to do what he feels is right no matter the consequence, striving to save the woman from her disasters, to bring good.