Page 48 of Claimed by the Fallen
I push my chair back and stand. The angels mimicme.
“What if the feeling has something to do with that bashert thing?” I look at each of them, hoping there is another explanation other than I’m a descendant of two fallenangels.
Zeke’s eyebrows lift to his hairline. “You know what abashertis?
“We haven’t gotten that far, Zeke,” Adrian interrupts before I have the chance toanswer.
The two blond brothers stare at each other, having a silentconversation.
Mr. Cohen clears his throat. Reluctantly, I pull my gaze away and look athim.
There is compassion in his expression. “We’ve all discussed the matter, and we are one-hundred percent certain what we say is true. Your parents are Fallen, one Light and oneDark.”
I close my eyes and try to steady my, now, pounding heart. This is toomuch.
All of it is toomuch.
“Relax, Ron,” Zeke reaches out and touches my arm, adopting the caring voice I rarely heard all those yearsago.
My eyes fly open and I flinch from surprise, but that doesn’t deter him. Zeke wraps his fingers around my elbow, and I’m surprised by how steadying his touchfeels.
I glance at Zeke. I must look terrified because his eyes soften. “It’s alright, Ron. I know this is a lot, but you’re tough. You’ll get throughthis.”
“And we’ll help you.” Gabe steps up and places a warm hand on top of my other shoulder. I see him give Zeke a hard look, and Iswallow.
“So… what? You guys are going to work together now? You don’t even like eachother.”
I look across the table and see Mr. Cohen and Adrian share aglance.
Then, Mr. Cohen faces me, and his blue eyes peer into my soul, “We’ve found something worth putting aside our pettyfeud.”
“Indeed,” Adrian agrees. “Something much more valuable andprecious.”
Refusing to be influenced by their flattery, I pinch my lips together and step forward, forcing Zeke and Gabe to drop theirarms.
“I need time to think,” I tell the room, but I’m not looking at anyone in particular. My gaze is locked on the tile beneath myfeet.
“Take all the time you need, Messenger,” Mr. Cohen replies. “When you’re ready to talk, we will behere.”
“All of us,” Gabe sounds from myright.
Not trusting my voice, I can only nod. Keeping my head down, I walk around the table and exit the kitchen. I half-expect one of the angels to say something else to me, but no one does. I escape up to my room, and begin questioning my entire life, wondering if everything I’ve ever loved and cherished has been alie.
Eighteen
The angels leaveme alone the rest of the day. The only interaction I have with them is when Zeke texts me, asking if I’m still feeling well. After reading the message, it takes all of my willpower not to scream. Of course, I’m not okay. The angels keep throwing me curveballs, and I barely have time to process one when another comes around the corner. I understand there is little they can do about it. I know they feel the need to tell me the truth—to not keep me in the dark. On any other subject, I would appreciate their honesty. But when the topic is the alleged angelic status of my parents, making me an even bigger freak, I’m not so keen to thank them for sharing thenews.
When I don’t respond to Zeke’s first message, I receive another. I have to force myself not to dwell on the fact he still has my cell number after all this time. It isn’t that big of a deal, or so I convincemyself.
About an hour after I’ve stomped out of the kitchen, I receive three more messages from three different numbers. I deduce Zeke gave my number to the rest of the angels. So, in the interest of not being harassed with my phone going off every two minutes, I periodically inform the angels I feel fine, that the painful symptoms do not manifest themselves again, and to please leave mealone.
My request isn’t granted, but the messages slow down after Irespond.
Annie texts me around lunchtime. Apparently, Gabe told her I wasn’t feeling well before he took me home from the party. I’m surprised by her lack of suggestive comments and questions about the dark-haired angel, but I cherish the reprievenonetheless.
Even Preston sends me a text, keeping his word about arranging a day for our date. Part of me had expected him to wake up and realize he’d been hasty by asking me out. If I didn’t see his nearly-fully cup of punch at the party, I might have thought he was drunk when he did. Alas, I’m provenwrong.
Hey Veronica! Heard you got sick. Hope you’re feeling better. Dinner thisweekend?
