Page 177 of Burn Like An Angel

God, I fucking miss them.

Raine is sunshine. Warmth dappled on my face. Summer barbecues on the beach. Orange juice freshly squeezed in the morning. All things love and light in a world awash with such despair.

By comparison, I see Xander as all dark. The violent, bubbling storm clouds that roll in when that summer day comes to a close. Yet it’s still beautiful—all that destructive threat. Complex and purposeful. Storms are a necessary part of nature.

I’d paint Lennox as the undulating lake that lives in his seafoam eyes. That’s the reality beneath his angry façade. A bottomless pit of water with a whirlpool at the centre. Holding us all firm.

The painting I first created of them in Harrowdean couldn’t be further from the truth. I thought they were my demons. The villains lurking in the background, creeping ever closer with their foul intentions.

Now… I’d take the monsters I first encountered over whatever lies ahead of me. Given the chance, I would rewind the clocks, return to Priory Lane and do it all over again.

Every second of heartache and anguish. All the trauma, the grief, the regret. I wouldn’t change anything. Even if it leads me right here.

If they’re dead… I would know, right? I’d feel it in my bones. Gravity would shift, and the world would dim into everlasting night. I’ve waited so long to find a place to belong, and now it feels like it’s being torn away with each mile that passes.

This can’t be it.

I didn’t survive all I did for it to end like this.

Ears straining when I feel the vehicle pull to a halt, I listen for any clues as to our whereabouts. These assailants are incredibly skilled. Jonathan must be expending a small fortune to secure my safe capture.

I don’t know why he doesn’t just kill me. Sure, it would play into the villain narrative that will form against him. He’d be forced to hide underground for the rest of his life. But isn’t this far more effort?

Car doors slam, causing the boot I’m encased in to jolt. I close my eyes, forcing my tingling limbs to loosen. I’m far from being able to run for the hills, but I won’t take another hit of those damn drugs.

“Sir,” someone greets.

“Any problems?” a clipped, all-business tone responds.

“None. We’re clear.”

“Good. Get her inside.”

Fresh nighttime air rushes in when the boot clicks open. Hands grab hold of me, lifting my torso and ankles between them. It takes all my self-control to keep my eyes shut.

My body is jostled between two people, the hands beneath my armpits carrying me a short distance. Multiple footsteps follow. I dare to crack open a lid the tiniest amount.

Black tarmac marked with stripes and landing strips. Curved metal fuselage. Circular windows. Spinning rotors. Golden embossing spelling out a familiar company name.

Langdale Investments.

I’m being carried onto a private jet.

If I try anything now, I’ll be drugged and incapacitated again before I can get far. The pins and needles are still spreading, bringing sensation with them.

“Leroy will meet with us in Rio De Janeiro.”

Uncle Jonathan. I recognise his voice.

“Very good, sir.”

That motherfucker, Elon. I’ll kill the son of a bitch.

“You’ll be compensated for your assistance, Elon. I understand it has been a trying time, but we’ll recover from recent setbacks and rebuild.”

“Sir.” Elon hesitates, shuffling his feet. “Is it wise to keep her alive? She’s a proven risk.”

Jonathan chuckles. It’s a flat, ugly sound. A true reflection of the man who lies within his carefully choreographed exterior, clothed in luxury and false smiles to schmooze his clients.

---