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But only in private.
Always in private.
Tears are a tool—not a weakness.
Words forever ingrained in me under the harsh glare of the spotlight.
I was a little girl who’d never had smiles, or hugs, or pinkie swears. All I had were my sisters, and after that day, I didn’t even have them anymore. But even as he stood there in the hour of my reckoning, this boy, this Angel of Death, this beautifully bitter beacon of darkness, I was at peace with all of it.
He was all I’d ever need.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five.
Angel of Death. I should have been terrified at the darkness of his proclamation. Shattered by who’d come for me. Why he’d come for me. What was about to happen.
Only I wasn’t.
Instead, my heart pumped faster. Beat harder. Raced toward a new reality.
It made no sense, but, of course, my eight-year-old mind didn’t understand it. It didn’t question it. It simply accepted what was.
My pain was now his.
My heart beat a rhythm only he would ever hear.
The Angel of Death destroyed me to save me.
So, moments before I spread my wings and flew into the sun, I made a child’s promise to myself. I’d find him again in another life. This beautifully bitter boy with the messy black hair and sad eyes.
And when I did, his pain would be mine.
His heart would beat only for me.
I’d destroy him and set him free.
The first time I kissed an angel, I died.
The second time, we both wished I’d stayed that way.
CHAPTER ONE
ANGEL
A quarter.
My shoulder dips under the weight of the tray as I stare down at the empty table in disbelief. Not that I’m used to big tips around here, but this is just plain insulting. It’s enough to make me chuck the whole tray across the bar and walk out. Instead, I drop it in my apron because it’s twenty-five cents closer to not being evicted.
There’s a familiar squeak of sneakers behind me, and Violet’s chin appears over my shoulder. “Nice. Only 2,399 more cheap asses and you’re there.”
I groan. “Not helping.”
“I know you’ll think of something,” she encourages me, her dark-painted lips splitting into a forced grin.
“I appreciate the vote of confidence,” I grumble, moving to the next table. It’s the same discussion we have every month. We come down to the wire, and Violet ends up compromising whatever morals she has left so I don’t have to.
Lather. Rinse. Repeat.
Violet follows me, leaning over the back of a wooden chair. “There are other options,” she says, casually. “Reg still wants—”
