Page 6 of His Relentless Angel

He probably thinks I’m shaking because I’m cold or scared of the storm. While that’s partially true, it’s mainly because the man I love is holding me tight for the very first time, making my heart race and body vibrate.

I tip my head back and skate a hand up his muscular chest to palm the nape of his neck and gently press down so he’ll drop his head. I’m taller than most women at five-foot-eight, but he’s much taller than most men at six-foot-five, so the height difference is still pronounced.

“Isaiah,” I breathe out, his lips so close to mine. “Do you want to know what I wished for when I blew out my birthday candles?” I go up on my tiptoes and whisper, “I wished you would give me my first kiss…and make love to me.”

I try to press my lips to his, but just before they meet, Isaiah drops his hands like my body has scalded him. He hurries to back away, his T-shirt now damp, leaving me to sway on my feet and catch my balance.

“Damnit, B. You gotta go.”

“Please…”

“No! Whatever you’re going to say, I don’t want to hear it.” His thick, black brows dip when he sees my chin quiver, and then he cuts his attention to the side and opens the front door. “You need to—fuck!” He closes and locks the door when the lightning flashes closer. “You can’t go out in that.” He drags both palms down his smooth cheeks and swerves around me into his open bedroom door on the right side of the condo.

I turn to follow him in and bump into his chest when he straightens after sliding closed the bottom drawer of his substantial, black wood dresser on the left wall with a pile of folded clothes in his hands. We’re less than five feet away from his black king-sized bed situated in the middle of the room against the back wall. The rumpled, bright orange comforter, which he must have been sleeping under before he answered the door, has my heart racing all the faster until I feel faint. His bed calls to me. Makes me beg the universe to have Isaiah pull me back into his warm arms and lay me down in the middle of his sheets with his heavy body on top of mine.

He tries to hand me the clothes. “Here,” he grits out. “You’re soaking wet. Get changed.”

He’s given me the opportunity he and I both want and need for me to strip my clothes and give him my body, which belongs to him. In all my dreams, I imagined him slowly undressing me an inch at a time and kissing his way down my form, but that’s ok. Plans change. I loosen the ties at my shoulders and drag the fabric down over my braless breasts, standing half nude before a man for the first time in my life with the gold bumblebee pendant sticking to my chest.

The way his eyes widen and lips part bolsters my confidence. Neither of us breathe as I pull the fabric lower, just past my belly button, when he suddenly shouts, “Goddamnit, B!” Isaiah throws the clothes at my chest and sprints around me out of the bedroom, slamming the door shut behind him.

I pinch my lips closed to contain the sob that tries to burst forth at his rejection, my new found confidence left shattered on the floor. I never once considered he might find me unattractive since we’re soulmates. I just bared myself to the love of my life, gifting him with something I’d been saving for him and him alone, and he couldn’t stand to look at me.

There’s a bunch of muttered curses and stomping around in the living room, sure to piss off the neighbors who live below him. I try not to cry throughout my undressing after unbuckling and stepping out of my sandals.

The white T-shirt with a screen-printed sword and Stormlight Archive quote he gave me fits like a nightgown, and though it’s shorter than my dress, it’s more modest. My hips may be wide, but no matter how many times I roll the waistband on the navy blue sweatpants he gave me, they won’t stay up. I fold them and put them back in his dresser drawer, imagining my own clothes folded and situated alongside his.

In his stark white attached bathroom to the right of his bed, I drag the dry, dark gray towel that still smells like him off the towel rack, squeeze the water from my hair, and then wipe away my smudged eyeliner. Drowned rat is right. My tiny white panties are soaking wet, chafing my thighs when they rub together, so I hang them over the glass shower door along with my dress to dry.

Closing my eyes, I press his towel to my nose to inhale more of his scent. When I finally turn away from the large, circle mirror and stand before his closed bedroom door, I blow out a long breath, trying to settle my nerves and push away my heartache. Do not cry. Positive thoughts only. Manifest your future. All my plans for the party have been a bust, yet I’ve still managed to end up alone with Isaiah, so all is not lost.

Envisioning Isaiah and me and our future family living in the house so near to James, Shayla, and my parents, I open the door and step into the dark living room lined with built-in shelves brimming with books, board games, and figurines of his favorite sci-fi characters. Isaiah is seated furthest away from me on the chaise section of his black couch, pushed up below the large window that looks out toward the parking lot, redressed in a dry T-shirt. He’s right on the edge, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, hanging his head. His glasses lie on the coffee table beside his cell phone and discarded damp T-shirt.

“Isaiah?” I inch closer, stopping when I’m a foot away. It’s unbearable not to go to him fully. To touch him. But it’s equally unbearable thinking of him rejecting me again, so I can’t quite bring myself to close the remaining distance. Positive thoughts, damnit!

Without looking at me, he says, “There’s a flash flood warning, and it’s not safe for you to drive. You can sleep in the bedroom, and I’ll sleep out here. In the morning, you’re going to leave with the promise to never come to my place again.”

“I—”

“Save it. I don’t want you showing up here again. Don’t want you so much as even talking to me the next time I see you.” He finally looks up at me sharply. “You hear me? No more. This weird obsession you have ends now,” he says with more authority than I’ve ever heard him use before.

“A weird…” I shake my head. “I love you, Isaiah. I’ve always loved you. I want to marry you and have a family with you. I want us to grow old together and—”

He presses his fingers into his eyes with frustration. “That is never going to happen. I. Don’t. Want. You,” he stresses. “I never have, and I never will.”

And with that, the shattered remains of myself are ground to dust on his dark wood floor when he drops his hands and looks at me like he hates me. Hates my presence in his life. Hates the love and devotion I have for him. The love of my life doesn’t just not want me. He hates my existence, and I want to die.

I slap a hand over my mouth to catch my body-wracking sobs, and I look around wildly for my car keys. I don’t care about the raging storm outside or the flash flood warning. I can’t stay here. Can’t bear the pain of looking at the most beautiful man in the world and watching his hate for me fester. I find my keys on the hanging key rack shaped like a broadsword in the entryway, grab them, and whip open the front door.

Barefoot, wearing only his white T-shirt, I don’t bother closing the door behind me as I sprint to the concrete stairs in front of his next-door neighbor’s unit. I’m halfway down them when I’m snatched up off my feet by a slick, corded arm around my waist and dragged up and back into Isaiah’s condo.

Isaiah slams the door closed and spins me on my feet with my back against it. He bends and wraps both arms around my lower back and holds me so close to his chest that I’m forced to push my arms up and over his shoulders so they aren’t crushed between us.

He presses his face into my neck, his voice raspy when he says, “I’m so sorry, B. I’m sorry. Don’t cry, baby.”

Of course, that only makes me cry harder. He’s never called me baby before, and it’s all so confusing. I don’t understand the man holding me like he’s terrified of me getting hurt when he hates me.

Isaiah whispers a curse under his breath and slides one hand up my back to slip his fingers into my wet hair at the nape of my neck, pressing my face into his shoulder. “I’m so sorry, baby. I shouldn’t have said all that.” He speaks the words directly against my neck, and when I tilt my head just so, he kisses the corner of my jaw, all soft sloping angles, making me gasp.

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