Page 17 of Uriel
The gentle pitter-patterof rain against the windows rouses me from a deep slumber. I blink slowly, the world coming into focus in hazy increments. The first thing I notice is that this isn’t my cramped apartment bedroom. The ceiling is too high, the sheets too soft, the air too... clean. For a moment, panic flutters in my chest before the events of the past few days come rushing back.
Right. The mansion. The earthquakes. The apocalypse.
Uriel.
A groan escapes me as I roll over, burying my face in the pillow. My head throbs with a dull ache, a reminder of the wine I indulged in last night. Last night... Oh god.
Bits and pieces of the evening flash through my mind like a disjointed slideshow. The elaborate dinner. The stars. Uriel’s intense gaze across the candlelit table. And then...
Heat rises to my cheeks as I remember my behavior. Had I really touched his face? Called him my hero? Mortification washes over me in waves. What must he think of me now?
But as embarrassment fades, another emotion takes its place. A warm, fluttery feeling in my chest as I recall Uriel’s gentleness. How he’d steadied me with a hand on my elbow, guided me carefully to my room. He could have taken advantage of my inebriated state, but he didn’t. He was... a perfect gentleman.
Or maybe he just doesn’t care about me that way at all.
The thought sends an unexpected pang through my heart. I push it aside, refusing to examine it too closely. This is Uriel we’re talking about. Dr. Stick-up-his-ass Angelstone. The bane of my professional existence. I can’t possibly be developing feelings for him.
Can I?
Shaking my head to clear it—and immediately regretting the motion as it intensifies my headache—I force myself to sit up. The room spins for a moment before settling. I need coffee. And maybe a gallon of water.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed, toes sinking into the plush carpet. The patter of rain has intensified, no longer a gentle background noise but a steady drumming against the windows. Great. Trapped inside with my confusing thoughts and an archangel who may or may not be starring in some very inappropriate daydreams.
Just another day in paradise.
With a sigh, I heave myself up and shuffle to the closet. Time to face the day, and whatever awkwardness it might bring.
Twenty minutes and one long, hot shower later, I’m feeling marginally more human. I stand before the open closet, frowning at my limited options. Whoever packed for me seems to have focused on cocktail attire rather than practical, mountain-appropriate clothing.
After some deliberation, I settle on a Chanel dress—a secondhand find from my favorite thrift store. It’s a classic little black number, elegant but simple. Completely impractical for arainy day in a mountain mansion, but it’s the least formal thing I have.
As I slip it on, smoothing the fabric over my hips, I can’t help but feel a bit ridiculous. Here I am, dressed for a Parisian cafe, about to have breakfast with an archangel while the world potentially ends outside. My life has taken a decidedly surreal turn.
I take a deep breath, steeling myself for whatever the day might bring. Then, head held high—despite the lingering headache—I make my way downstairs.
I find Uriel in the parlor, standing by a rain-lashed window with a steaming mug in his hand. He’s forgone his usual suit for a crisp white shirt and dark slacks, the top button undone in a rare display of casual elegance. The sight of him, backlit by the grey morning light, sends an unexpected flutter through my stomach.
He turns as I enter, and for a moment, I swear I see something flicker in his eyes. Surprise? Appreciation? But it’s gone so quickly I might have imagined it.
“Good morning,” he says, his voice low and smooth. “How are you feeling?”
I force a smile, pushing down the butterflies in my stomach. “Like I went ten rounds with a cement mixer,” I admit. “But I’ll live. I don’t suppose there’s more of whatever you’re drinking?”
The corner of his mouth twitches in what might be a smile. “Coffee’s in the kitchen. Black, I believe you said? Strong enough to raise the dead?”
I blink, surprised he remembered. “That’s the one. Thanks.”
As I move to the kitchen, I feel Uriel’s eyes on me. Self-consciousness creeps in, and I resist the urge to fidget with my dress. “I, uh, I know this isn’t exactly proper attire for a rainy day in,” I gesture vaguely, “all this. But it was either this or an evening gown, so...”
“You look lovely,” Uriel says, then clears his throat as if surprised by his own words. “I mean, it’s... suitable. For the circumstances.”
An awkward silence falls, heavy with unspoken things. I busy myself with pouring coffee, grateful for the distraction. When I turn back, mug in hand, Uriel is still watching me, his expression unreadable.
I take a sip of the rich, dark brew, sighing as the caffeine begins to work its magic. “So,” I say, desperate to break the tension, “any word on the apocalypse front? We haven’t been struck by lightning or swallowed by the earth, so I’m guessing that’s a good sign?”
Uriel’s brow furrows slightly. “No further seismic activity, as far as I can tell. But I fear our respite may be temporary.”
I nod, chewing my lip thoughtfully. An idea forms, and before I can second-guess myself, I blurt it out. “I was thinking... maybe I could pop back to my apartment? Pick up some, you know, normal clothes. Things better suited for averting the end times.”
