Page 23 of Claimed by the Fallen
My annoyed expression falls the moment I lock eyes with the man. His irises glisten with anticipation, and a flash of some unidentifiable emotion flits over his cheekbones and ruggedjawline.
His gaze shifts and moves down. I’m suddenly aware of my short pajama bottoms and the fact I’m not wearing a bra. I resist the urge to cover my chest. Instead, I pray the top is loose enough to keep everything out of sight. Despite my best attempt, I can’t hide the crimson color rising in my cheeks. I lookaway.
A fresh pang stabs my chest. I rub my sternum and see Mr. Cohen’s eyes mark the action. “Let me guess, your chest has been aching so much it feels like you can’tbreathe.”
My lips part in surprise. Quickly, I snap them closed. I drop my hand and lift aneyebrow.
“What, are you a mind reader?” I ask sarcastically. He’d probably seen me wince while I rubbed my chest bone. I hadn’t tried to conceal the pain from myface.
It turns out, I shouldn’t have challengedhim.
Mr. Cohen looks at my raised brow. His eyes narrow as he says, “No, I’m not a mind reader. I’m something much more.” I think this is the first time I’ve ever seen Mr. Cohen look at me with anything other thankindness.
I give up and cross my arms, partly in defiance and partly to cover myself. “Oh? Do tell.” I don’t know where I found my attitude in this situation. Normally, only Mom and Dad see my bratty side. Again, I blame my exhaustion for my poor decisionmaking.
Mr. Cohen takes a step forward. Though he’s still feet away, I feel like he’s looming over me. “You want to know what weare?”
I get the impression there’s a dark side to my teacher—one I’d never seen before. He’s always seemed reserved and studious in the classroom. I never once thought he would be any different outside the walls of Valley Lake High School. I lick my lips, feeling nervous. I don’t know if I want to hear what Mr. Cohen has to say, but I can’t see a way to back outnow.
So, not trusting myself to form coherent and non-antagonizing words, I simplynod.
Mr. Cohen’s eyes flash. Then, without hesitation, he says seven words which turn my entire world upside-down, “We are angels, Messenger. Just likeyou.”
Ten
Iwaitfor Mr. Cohen to say he’s joking. I half-expect my parents, Annie and Joey to jump out from behind the couch and yell, “Gotcha”.
But that doesn’thappen.
“Angels? Are youinsane?”
Briefly, I wonder if I’m dreaming. That would make more sense than believing my physics teacher actually broke into my house and was spouting some nonsense aboutangels.
But my mind is clear. I know I’m awake. This is reallyhappening.
“I know it may seem that way, but I promise we can explain,” Mr. Cohen tells me calmly. The dark presence he’d exhibited seconds ago has disappeared. Now, he is back to acting like my approachable and likeable teacher. “Let’s sit down so we can talk. You look dead on yourfeet.”
He’s not wrong; I feel like someone took a steamroller and drove it over my chest. The constricting feeling in my chest is back with avengeance.
“Fine.” I gesture towards the living room. “After you.” There’s no way I’m turning my back onthem.
Mr. Cohen nods and walks toward the couch. I stiffen as his brother draws near. Periwinkle trots at his heel, still trying to gain his attention. I lift my gaze and see his swift wink as he passes. A soothing wave washes over me, cooling the stinging heat in mychest.
I take a steadying breath and follow them into the living room. Both men sit on the couch. I stand by the room’sopening.
Mr. Cohen observes me with a frown. “You should sit before youfaint.”
He’s right; I should sit down. I step to the side and lower myself on the ottoman pressed against the wall. I refuse to abandon my position near the exit. Periwinkle doesn’t share my aversion. She leaps between the two men and burrows herself onto thecushion.
“You said you would explain,” I say to Mr. Cohen when neither of them speaks. My adrenaline is still high, and my fingers are trembling. I try to hide the movement by tucking my hands under mythighs.
My teacher leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees. He presses his lips together and looks at the coffee table in front ofhim.
His brother doesn’t look as conflicted. He leans back and bends his arms to rest his hands on the back of his head. He watches me with a grin, and I fight the urge to shield myself with the decorative pillow next tome.
“I regret blurting out the truth,” Mr. Cohen states. He lifts his eyes to me. “I apologize,Messenger.”
I shake my head, ignoring the flutter in my stomach. “Why are you in my house, Mr.Cohen?”
