Dark Angel

XVI

After the fight, Rae had begrudgingly left, casting one last pitying look Chloe's way, and Derek had vanished into his room, which suited Chloe just fine.

Her father, home for only a few days, noticed her bloodshot eyes and closed his laptop with a click when she wandered into the kitchen. She hadn't anticipated his sudden attention and flustered at his concerned stare when he came close, wrapping a gentle arm around her bicep—the same spot where Derek had gripped her and it was such a shock against the icy sting of the fallen angel's hand it made her break out in goosebumps—and tossed her a smile that looked too worn to be happy.

"Honey, what happened?" He spoke in that measured voice she recalled from her childhood and she opened her mouth to brush him off, as she always did, but nothing came out. Derek's cruel words rang in her mind, a growing pile to her insecurities, and she swallowed hard against the lump in her throat.

"Dad," she tried, but her voice was too weak, her throat too tight, and she pressed her face into his chest, uncaring if she ruined his suit. Instantaneously he wrapped his arms around her, squeezing her tight, and dropped a kiss onto the top of her head.

Together they stood in silence, punctuated only by the ragged sound of her breath as she struggled not to make herself sick, and his soft murmurs of gentle comfort.

He smelled of sweat and deodorant and the nice ink from his calligraphy pens he loved, and the aroma calmed her down. His face was still pressed against her hair when she noticed a prickling sensation, a presence, and looked off towards the entrance of the kitchen, spotting a sliver of movement.

Derek.

Why had he come back down? To mock her pain for losing someone she was so close to? To pour lemon juice in her festering wound?

She clenched her jaw, hiking up a shoulder and pretending she'd never seen him hightailing it back to his room. He was a coward as far as she was concerned.

A pitiful, angry, sad, pathetic coward who didn't care who he hurt or who got hurt because of him.


Chloe spent the day with her dad, lying easily about the cause of her outburst (claiming an impending period seemed to do the trick) and it was amazing. Her dad was hardly ever home due to his job so the times she saw him were far and few between, and after the awful fight between Derek and her yesterday, she needed time to forget about him, a distraction.

"Wanna watch a movie?" her dad asked as she stepped into the entertainment room, dressed in yoga pants and an oversized sweatshirt, carrying the bag of Chinese food. "Oh, let me get some plates."

She waved him off, plopping down.

"Did Derek want anything?"

At the mention of his name, she stiffened slightly, pausing taking out the containers with suddenly weak fingers. "No," she muttered, trying to keep the petulant tone out of the words as she spoke.

Since the fight, they hadn't spoken at all. He made himself scarce, and for that, she was grateful; she was certain if he tried to talk to her, she'd end up decking him, and that certainly wouldn't help things.

"Are you sure? Why don't you go ask him?" He smiled like he was being kind.

Scowling to herself, she set the containers on the counter and walked down the hallway to the stairs. Every step felt like lead and she could feel herself beginning to tremble, remembering every harsh insult he'd thrown at her since they met.

"Derek?" she called when she got to his bedroom door. "I've got Chinese. My dad wants to know if you want any."

Rustling, and then a quiet grunt. "Fine."

She swallowed hard, acid and anger burning her esophagus, and wrapped her hand around the doorknob.

She deserved answers, after everything, after all the ugliness he'd given her when he made it clear it was his job to protect her.

Gathering her courage, she twisted the handle, her breath catching at the sight of him shirtless—all lily-white skin and scars and rippling muscle and was that a tattoo in the shape of wings across his entire back?—and he turned, not expecting her.

When his eyes met hers, she grasped that hard pit of rage from the center of her stomach and demanded, in a clear, strong voice, "Tell me what hell is going? What was my mom? Why did you fall? And you better tell me now; I deserve it after everything you have put me through!"

His jaw clenched, he inhaled sharply, his broad chest moving. She was proud how her eyes did not wander.

"I don't owe you anything."

She stalked the distance, scowling, and grabbed a hold of his belt loop, yanking him with all her might. She wasn't anticipating him to stumble, his weight hitting her, and she reached out to brace herself on his hip, touching the crisp edge of the tattoo that peeked out from his back.

Her breath was sucked away as she fell face-first into a dim, fuzzy place. It was raining and icy but she didn't feel cold.

"Shit," Derek growled at her side. "Look what you've done!"

She could see people rushing past her, oblivious to them, and yelped when a blond man ran straight for her…only to pass by harmlessly. "Where are we?" She looked at Derek.

He raked a hand through his long hair. "The night your mother died, the day of my fall."

"We're—"

"In the past. You'll see everything."

"Let's go." With a nod, she set off at a brisk pace towards the hospital her aunt work at.

Tonight she would finally know what happened.