Page 97 of Burn Like An Angel

Is Rae alive?

Did she make it out?

The bread in my mouth turns to ash. I abandoned her. All of them. People I hurt to bolster my own position. People I equipped to hurt themselves. Rae deserves to be free, not me. She’s the innocent one.

“Ripley?”

Lennox stops next to me without touching me this time. He peers at my face, a frown forming between his dark-brown eyebrows.

“You’re crying again.”

I numbly touch my cheek, finding it wet. “I don’t deserve to be invisible.”

“What’s that?”

“That’s why my superpowers aren’t working. The world wants me to be punished for what I did in Harrowdean. It won’t let me disappear.”

“Oh, Rip.” He shakes his head. “Can I touch you?”

When I don’t reject him, Lennox moves closer. He clasps my cheek in his huge, calloused hand, the rough skin making my face itch. His thumb travels through my falling tears in a wide arc.

“You’ve been punished enough,” he whispers emphatically. “Just being locked up in there was a punishment. You did what you had to. The world could never begrudge you that.”

“But… I left Rae behind.”

His gaze fractures with sympathy. “You barely escaped with your life. That’s a bit different.”

Eyes closing, I lean into his touch. It feels more welcome this time. I know it’s Lennox. Not the Lennox that exists in my memories, but the Lennox I recently discovered. Protective. Loyal. Firm but gentle when needed.

“Now, I can’t help with this superpower issue.” He strokes a thumb over my parted lips. “But I have something that may take your mind off it. Want to come see?”

I nod, reopening my eyes. “Okay.”

He releases me to take my hand. Raine still sits at the table, surrounded by their empty takeaway cartons. Lennox guides me into his vacated chair as he locates the backpack he also brought back.

“Found a small art shop on the walk back to the hotel,” he explains while reaching inside. “It’s been a while, right? I heard this helps you cope with stuff.”

Lennox stacks two sketchbooks, a pack of charcoal pencils and a miniature watercolour set with sealed brushes in front of me. For several astonished seconds, I just gape. It’s been so long since I saw paint or brushes.

“These are for me?”

“Well, yeah.” He shrugs, his teeth digging into his bottom lip. “If they’re not right… I can go back.”

With still-shaking hands, I pick up the watercolours, clicking the tin open to inspect the colours. The familiar scent of paint feels like walking into my childhood home and accepting a perfume-scented hug from my mum.

Tears well back up. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Reckon you could show me some of those famous skills while we wait for Xander?” he requests, locating a bottle of water to fill a glass. “I haven’t seen much of your art before.”

Flipping open the sketchpads, I run my fingertips over the paper. It’s good quality, thick and well-grained for watercolour work. The charcoals are all perfectly sharpened. He chose these supplies thoughtfully.

“Just like old times in the studio.” Raine laughs before quickly sobering. “God, I miss my violin. I really hope she survived the riot.”

Lennox takes a seat, pushing cartons out of the way. “We’ll get you another.”

“Not the same. She was perfect.”

Ignoring their conversation, I dip the flat brush into the water he poured and begin mixing colours. Just seeing the brilliant swirls kickstarts the creative fever that always sets in when I sit down to paint.

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