Page 11 of Raphael
I’m about to step back inside when a glint by my feet catches my eye. A sleek black phone rests on the welcome mat, screen blinking with an incoming call.
Frowning, I pick it up and check the caller ID—it’s Draven, my fiancé. Instantly, panic grips my throat in a vise. Guilt constricts my chest at the sight of his name.
It’s just like Draven to pull this kind of stunt on me. His whole life is a shroud of mystery. He’s earned his fair share of enemies over the ages, so he’s always on the move. Andthat’sthe life that waits for me by his side after we marry.
In my fervent fantasizing about Raphael, I’d nearly forgotten my intended waiting across the ocean. Part of it is Draven’s fault as well. It’s been a full week since we last spoke. And now, standing here, still flushed from conjuring up an archangel in fevered daydreams, the thought of facing Draven turns my stomach.
The phone continues buzzing in my palm, screen flashing as it awaits my response. But I’m paralyzed, shame rooting me to the spot.
Panic surges through me and without reason, I hurl the phone away. It skids across the hardwood floor, its buzzing ceasing as the screen darkens. I press against the door, a shaky breath escaping from my lips. Avoidance will solve nothing, but I’m desperate for even a few minutes’ respite from that conversation.
I force my eyes closed and inhale, trying to steady my thunderous heart. But it’s no use. The tempest rages on. I rake both hands roughly through my hair, a low groan escaping me.
What is happening to me?The Helena of old never backed away from problems. She tackled them head-on. Now, in the span of one night, she’s become a coward ruled by impulse and emotion.
It all comes back to that archangel. Since meeting Raphael, my self-control has dissipated like morning mist under the sun.
I yearn for his forbidden embrace. My mind spins fantasies unrestrained by logic or decency. He’s awakened some ravenous beast slumbering within me, and I no longer recognize myself.
And the terrifying part is... I’m not sure I want the old Helena back. Because she was so cold, so restrained. A prisoner inside herself. Raphael cracked something open within me, and what came spilling out is too precious to willfully trap away again.
My hands curl into fists and I press them into my stomach like a shield from the battle waged inside me. I can’t keep fighting myself this way, it will only lead to madness.
I wish I could speak with Eve about these turbulent emotions. She would understand, having been taught harsh lessons about denying one’s true nature. And she seemed surprisingly open-minded about my encounter with Raphael. Perhaps she sensed our powerful chemistry even in those brief moments together. Her knowing looks spoke volumes.
But I don’t feel ready to put words to these chaotic feelings, not until I understand them better myself. For now, I shouldn’t speak of Raphael at all, lest these unwise fixations deepen.
With that thought, unwelcome images flood my mind again unbidden—Raphael’s strong arms caging me against the wall, his skillful lips blazing a trail down my neck, his big body pinning me in place as he lay claim to my mouth...
“Damn him!” I burst out in a snarl, swiping the empty wine bottle from the coffee table and hurling it away in a futile act of defiance. It shatters spectacularly against the exposed brick wall, raining shards across the floor.
Chest heaving, I stare wide-eyed at the destruction, alarm piercing through the hazy veil of wine. Fragile wisps of self-control fray perilously. I’m unraveling by the second.
I need to get out of this apartment, escape the scene of so many tormenting thoughts about Raphael. Distance and distraction are the only remedies now.
Regret gnaws at my insides as I snatch up the phone and hastily throw on a hoodie. The walls are closing in, suffocating me with anxiety. I flee outside, gasping for breath and freedom. My feet instinctively take me to the murky waterfront, tracing the boardwalk as it weaves along the turbulent sea.
The pounding of the waves echoes through the darkness, white caps faintly visible through the gloom. I close my eyes, focusing on the rush and crash of the surf. The steady cadence soothes my still-swirling thoughts, lulling my nerves.
With my forearms braced against the overlook railing, I fix my gaze on the inky horizon, merging sea and sky into a void-like oneness. Out here, my problems seem less all-consuming—just one small speck amongst an infinite universe.
Taking out the phone, I stare at the blank screen building courage. Then before I can overthink, I hit redial on Draven’s number. It barely rings once before he picks up.
“Helena! Thank Lucifer,” he answers, the relief in his voice sinking my gut with renewed guilt. “I’ve been worried sick since you didn’t pick up. Is everything alright?”
I pause, throat tightening. The easy endearment squeezes my chest. “Y-yes, everything’s fine,” I manage. “Sorry, I missed your call earlier. I was caught up going through Uncle Luci’s ledgers.” At least that’s partly true.
“Think nothing of it, darling,” he replies gently. “I’m just glad to hear your voice.”
His patient tone makes my eyes prick hot with tears. Draven has been nothing but good and kind through our courtship. The urge to confess everything wells up, but I swallow it down.Don’t be selfish—he doesn’t deserve the burden of my fickle thoughts.
So instead, I put on a cheerful tone and ask about his week, keeping the topics light and safe. He tells me about work projects and time spent with friends abroad, easing my conscience somewhat.
After chatting a while longer, we say goodnight—Draven promising to call again very soon, while also reminding me to ditch this phone the minute we hang up. When we finish the call, the truth sits bitter on my tongue. I’ve only sunk deeper into my deception. Draven knows nothing of the archangel who’s hijacked my thoughts so fully.
Some instincts warn me Draven’s placid temper could ignite to frightening extremes, given certain... provocations. I’ve witnessed his rage when a business deal went awry or an employee underperformed. Always calculated, never uncontrolled, but chilling nonetheless. The cold fury in his eyes during those episodes raised the fine hairs at my nape.
No. I can’t tell Draven about Raphael, not until I get the archangel out of my system completely. Once I restore my inner equilibrium, I can better assess how to move forward. That’s all there is to it.
