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Chapter 24 - Chapter Twenty-Three - You're Not Human

Embracing Charlotte's unwavering dedication to their mission, Angel concentrated on training her in vital military skills. He showed her how to properly secure zip-tie restraints, conceal GPS trackers, and operate the non-lethal equipment he carried.

They practiced different techniques to better harness her supernatural abilities in various scenarios, preparing her for any assignments she might have to complete alone.

This approach helped him maintain the illusion that they were simply an assigned pair in the Special Forces, which in turn helped to distract him from his growing feelings for her.

His tactics proved remarkably effective as they completed mission after mission over the next six weeks without complications: finding three lost children, one kidnapped teenager, and, during an outing in a small town, helping a family locate and recapture their escaped dog.

The steady success rate should have served as a warning to Angel. Since he began his career as a bounty hunter, he had failed a few times, and each failure triggered his PTSD, leading him to call the Suicide and Crisis hotline.

Not because he was suicidal, but because he was wise enough to know that his trauma couldn't be fixed with meditation, and he wasn't going to turn to drinking. He had tried therapy shortly after leaving the service, but with his missions taking him all over the East Coast, he kept missing appointments.

Instead, with Charlotte's gifts and his skillset, they were saving so many lives that it became intoxicating in its own way, and the thrill of their achievements convinced him that they could not fail.

Then one night, everything came crashing down around them.

Cassie had called with a new mission, catching them as they parked at a fast-food place for dinner. "How far are you from Lewisburg?" she asked in a clipped, urgent tone.

Tapping the speakerphone icon to free his hands and let Charlotte listen in, he began pulling up directions. "Checking now, what's the mission?"

"The Frequencies exploded about ten minutes ago. A young girl, ten years old, has been kidnapped by her father from her babysitter's home. Officers were called, and they've tracked him down to his place on the outskirts of town. They're currently in a tense standoff waiting for a therapist to arrive for negotiations."

"So authorities are on site? Amanda's going to be pissed if I get involved." He paused to confirm the results of his search. "It's an hour away. Anything else?"

"Yes, the suspect's name is Noah Cooper, age twenty-nine. He recently lost a custody hearing for his daughter, Annabel. I pulled his criminal record—Cooper has a history of substance abuse and armed assaults. He's not a stable man."

"Shit!" Angel swore under his breath, his stomach already knotting with dread.

"Kevin?" Cassie sounded tense, worry bleeding through her voice. "I don't feel good about this one."

"I hear you." He twisted the key in the ignition, starting the van with more force than necessary. "Text me his address. If you don't hear from me by morning, call Amanda. Chances are, you might need to post bond again."

"It'll be worth it. Be safe, lil brother."

"Always." Hanging up, Angel pocketed his phone and clenched his jaw, cursing under his breath.

Charlotte, who had remained silent for obvious reasons, noted his reaction to the report. "You're scared. Why?"

As he spun out of the parking lot onto the road, he cast a quick glance at her. "Parents who do these things are emotionally unstable, Charlotte. He took her because he's afraid of losing her. This, along with his criminal past, makes him extremely volatile."

Jerking the wheel sharply, he directed the van onto the freeway and floored the accelerator. Charlotte braced herself against the dashboard and kept her silence so he could concentrate. He rarely sped, so she knew he was especially frightened about this mission. Closing her eyes, she tried her best to meditate and prepare to do her part to help.

After about forty minutes of heavy silence, Angel slowed down as they neared the exit to Lewisburg.

Flicking on the turn signal to change lanes, he finally spoke up. "We're almost there. This is going to be different than usual, you understand?"

Her eyes pulsed with that familiar otherworldly light. "Yes. What do you want me to do?"

"You won't have time to build up your scare tactics. This is far too urgent. You'll go in—undercover as usual, find the father, and take him out. I don't care about being subtle. If he gets wind of any danger, he could harm the girl, or worse."

"I understand. And if he's armed?" she inquired, seeking Angel's guidance and permission to do whatever was necessary.

He provided it without hesitation. "Rip it from him as you did to me, and break his hand if you must." His words came sharp as broken glass, edged with violence.

"And the girl? What if she sees me?"

"This time, I don't care. Just get her out of there!"

Charlotte understood his feelings clearly. Among all forms of kidnapping, those involving family—people you're meant to trust the most—hit Angel the hardest. It represented a deep betrayal from a loved one. During those missions, his demeanor was darker, more intense. She suspected this was linked to his past.

"Since the police are on site, I won't be able to help." He glanced at her, "This is what I've been training you for. Think you're up for it?"

"I am." She licked her lips, slowly exhaling. Of course, she was up for it, but she was still nervous. She was always nervous.

He checked the map on his phone one more time. "We're close. Maybe ten minutes. You'd best get ready."

She nodded. 'Get ready' meant collecting the zip-ties and other items she'd take with her, as well as going invisible. Unclipping her seat belt, she started for the rear when Angel's phone rang. Dropping into her seat, she waited.

He pulled over; only one person would be calling, and he didn't bother to check the caller ID. "Cassie. Update?"

Time seemed to stop. Charlotte heard his sharp intake of breath, observed his hand tightening on the wheel until his knuckles went white, and saw his shoulders begin to tremble. Frightened, she opened her ears and listened in.

Cassie's voice, barely controlling her sobs, shared the devastating news. "—negotiations, but the father got spooked. He shot the girl and himself. The police raced inside, but it was too late. I'm so sorry."

Gasping, Charlotte covered her mouth so Cassie wouldn't hear her. Turning toward the window, she rested her head against the cold glass and wept.

Slamming his fists against the steering wheel, Angel shouted, "FUCK!"

Charlotte squeezed her eyes shut, struggling to contain her tears as her shoulders shook violently. Between sobs, she noticed the relentless thumping continuing, prompting her to shift in her chair and look.

Angel was pounding on the wheel with such brutal force as if he were trying to rip it from the dashboard and throw it out the window.

The anguish and rage she saw on his face frightened her to her core. It wasn't that she feared he would hurt her; she was terrified he would injure himself. He showed no signs of stopping, with welts and blood starting to form on his fists.

Lurching in her seat, Charlotte reached out and clutched his wrist with desperate strength. "Angel!" she exclaimed. "Please! Stop!"

She was shocked by how much it took to keep him still, to stop him from injuring himself further, or to avoid hurting him with her grip.

"Angel?" She did her utmost to sound soothing. "Please, calm down?"

Staring blankly through the windshield, he didn't move or acknowledge her hold on his wrist. Nearly a minute of tense silence passed before he looked at her and saw his anguish reflected in her worried eyes. It was then that he felt her hand on his arm and realized what she had done for him.

Licking his lips, he spoke slowly, blandly. "Let go, please."

At first, she did not. "Are you okay?"

His gaze and tone were firm, almost cold. "Yes."

Biting her lip, Charlotte slowly released her hold on him. Casting her eyes downward, she caught sight of the bruising she had inflicted on him and gasped.

Absentmindedly rubbing his wrist, he studied the darkness beyond his window, croaking out. "Thank you."

She nodded silently, for she had no idea what to say.

Reaching between his legs, Angel retrieved his phone and saw three text messages from Cassie. With quick fingers on the keys, he replied that he would call her in the morning. Pocketing the phone, he took a deep breath and glanced at Charlotte.

Both his eyes and cadence were gentler this time. "Thank you, Charlotte. I apologize if I frightened you."

"Only for your safety, Angel," she sniffed. "For you."

He gave her a faint smile. "Let's find a place to try and get some rest, alright?"

"Okay." Charlotte sank into her chair and closed her eyes.

Eventually, they found and checked into a shabby motel on the outskirts of town, rundown and poorly maintained, with flickering neon signs, broken shutters, and peeling paint. They took only what they needed for the night, a suitcase they'd bought last month and some toiletries, and entered the room in silence.

The usual routine of showers, food, jokes, and movies was abandoned. Instead, Angel slumped onto his bed, drained physically and emotionally. Charlotte lay down in hers and pulled the covers over her head, her quiet hiccups from spent tears muffled by the blanket.

Cassie tried calling again, but he let it go to voicemail. He sent her a short text saying he was okay but needed the night to reflect, reaffirming his promise to call her again in the morning. Lying down, he closed his eyes, but he did not intend to rest.

Eventually, he heard Charlotte's gentle breathing, indicating she had fallen asleep. Rising from the bed as noiselessly as he could, he went and opened a side pocket on the suitcase, extracted a frayed-edged journal, and sat at the small wooden desk. Turning on the lamp, he opened the notebook, slipped out the pen that was tucked in the spine, and began to write.

He'd been so absorbed in his writing for who knows how long that he didn't notice the whisper of sheets or careful footsteps gliding across the floor. Behind him, Charlotte cleared her throat delicately to announce her presence.

Putting the pen down, he gazed up. "Did I wake you?"

She saw the same expression in his eyes as before—haunted and lost, like he was peering into some dark place she couldn't reach. Though she saw herself reflected in his pupils, it felt like he was looking right through her at something that wasn't there.

Biting her lip, Charlotte shook her head gently. "It's okay." She studied the notebook. "What are you writing?"

He closed it, deliberating how to respond. After a beat, he chose honesty: "It's my journal of failures."

Placing her palm on his shoulder, she spoke with a catch in her throat. "Angel?"

Grateful for her touch, he laid his hand over hers, tilted his head to press both against his collarbone, and sighed. "I don't let them go, Charlotte; I don't let them be forgotten. I don't let myself forget what I did."

She noticed the size of the notebook and murmured, "How many?"

"Since I started this job, or since the beginning?" As he spoke, Angel realized he'd cracked open the door he'd been struggling to keep shut.

Charlotte went through that door. "The beginning."

Angel fixed his eyes on the journal for nearly a full minute.

She made no sound, no movement, locked in that timeless state with him.

Finally, his fingers moved, turning the pages toward the beginning. It bore a date one week after he left the service. She knew this because it was one of the few things he had shared with her about his past.

His next words were so hushed that a dropped pin would have drowned them out: "Are you sure you want to know?"

She squeezed his shoulder, signaling her support and that she was ready. "I want to know what haunts you. I want to share your burden."

With a sigh that racked his chest, he smacked his lips, resigned to his fate. He let go of her hand and stood up. "What I'm about to tell you: please don't think badly of me?"

Tears started to fill Charlotte's eyes. What happened to you, Angel? She thought painfully. Out loud, she promised him, "I could never."

"We'll see." He gestured for her to sit on her bed while he took a seat on his. Clearing his throat, Angel began.

When he finished an hour later, the air felt heavy, thick with an almost tangible despair that was unbearably painful and tragic.

Stunned, Charlotte sat there with her mouth agape, tears spilling over and streaming down her cheeks. She wept not only for the devastating story he had revealed, but for the raw, bleeding wounds that had never healed in his soul. She finally understood the weight he carried—why he pushed himself so tirelessly, and why he counted every failure like rosary beads forged of guilt.

She could see the broken angel beneath all that torment, the man who had somehow survived when everything inside him should have died. As he laid his truth bare before her, her heart cracked open with the force of it all—shock and rage at what had been done to him, overwhelming sadness for the man he'd been, and a fierce, protective love for the man he'd become. On that first night, she had vowed to be his partner. Now, she wanted to be his armor.

Rising to her feet, she shuffled over and took the notebook from his hands, placing it with care on her bed. He gazed up at her, tears glistening from the ache of revealing his memories. Boldly, and with no hesitation, she bent over and pressed her lips to his.

The kiss was tender at first, meant to soothe the anguish etched in every line of his face. She could taste the salt of tears on his lips, and her heart ached with the need to take away his suffering.

What started as the intent to comfort quickly became something more—she'd been fighting these emotions for weeks, and seeing him this damaged finally shattered her last wall of resistance.

When his arms came around her, tentative and grateful, her body settled against his. She felt him surrender to her caress, to this instant of peace she could offer him. Tenderly, she pressed against his shoulders, a silent question in the gesture. He answered by sinking down onto the bed, bringing her with her.

Settling over his hips, her pulse quickened. He felt so good beneath her—solid, warm, alive. Her core began to ache with the same intensity she experienced when she masturbated in the shower, each release temporarily easing a growing need that was now overwhelming. Heat bloomed low in her belly, spreading like wildfire through her veins as she sensed his desire rising against her, matching her own urgent craving.

Their kisses turned hungry, needy, as if they could somehow heal each other through touch alone. Her hand trembled as it slid down between their bodies, fingers fumbling for his belt clasp with clumsy determination. She needed him—needed to feel connected to him in the most basic way possible, needed to replace his agony with something beautiful. The fabric between them felt like a barrier, and she worked at it with increasing desperation, her ragged breaths coming in sharp gasps against his mouth.

Her fingers finally worked the belt free, and she felt the leather slide through the loops with a whisper of friction. The button of his jeans gave way beneath her trembling hands, and she could feel the heat of him through the thin fabric of his boxers. A low sound escaped her throat—half whimper, half moan—as she pressed her palm against him, feeling him hard and wanting beneath her touch.

His hips jerked involuntarily, and for one glorious second, she thought he would surrender completely. Her other hand slid beneath his shirt, nails dragging lightly across the ridges of his abdomen, feeling the muscles contract under her fingertips. She was drowning in sensation—the taste of him on her lips, the sound of his ragged breathing, the scent of his skin mixed with his rising pheromones. This was what she needed. This was what they both needed. She reached for his zipper.

Her euphoria was short-lived as he abruptly broke the kiss. She looked at him, confused. "Angel?"

"Charlotte," he swallowed hard. "I don't think this is a good idea."

"Why not?" she blinked, unsure if she heard right.

His next words sliced through her like a blade finding bone. "You're not human."

The statement was factual, but it was also the most brutal thing he had ever said to her—words that cleaved her heart in two. She sprang from the bed like she'd been struck by lightning, her eyes blazing crimson as her demon exploded to the surface in pure, molten fury.

The irony wasn't lost on her—her change had just proven his point in the most devastating way possible. But if her desire for him had been fire, her rage was an inferno that could burn down worlds.

"FUCK YOU!" she growled deeply. The very air seemed to crackle with electricity, and the light from the lamp flickered ominously.

He countered her wrath with a look of contrition. He understood this instant had to unfold her way, and he also realized that if she attacked, there was nothing he could do; he was unarmed.

As quickly as her anger had surged, it subsided, giving way to the deep hurt of rejection. She lowered her head, and fresh tears flowed from what should have been a dry well.

"I have more to say," he ventured cautiously.

She sniffled, her heart still raw and bleeding from his rejection. She didn't believe anything he could say would heal the wound he'd just carved into her soul. After weeks of hiding behind walls, she had finally been brave enough to show her desire for him, had offered him everything she was and everything she felt.

Yet, his response was to remind her she wasn't even human, as if she wasn't worthy of love. The word 'monster' echoed in her head. Even though he hadn't spoken it, she'd heard it loud and clear.

Taking a shuddering inhale to keep her anger from consuming her completely, she looked up. Eyes burning with pain and defiance, she dared him to speak, to make this worse than it already was.

He accepted the challenge. "I regret my words, Charlotte, but not the reasons for them. We still haven't tried to discover where you came from, or what could happen if you regain your memories." He paused, gathering his thoughts for what he needed to say next. "And we're uncertain whether we are even physically compatible or if, when we make love, something supernatural happens. We simply don't know the consequences."

Although it was a logical and thoughtful explanation, it left a bitter taste in his mouth because it concealed the fact that he was in love with her, too.

He understood that his actions could irreparably harm their relationship, regardless of the kind they might attempt to build. He cursed his critical thinking, but couldn't risk hurting her, himself, or what the potential outcome of such a union could be. However, now that Charlotte had expressed her desire for him—and her love—rejecting her warranted a notebook of its own.

She remained silent longer than he felt comfortable with, but the subtle shift of her shoulders and the way her fingers clenched told him she was processing every word he'd said. He waited, barely drawing air.

Then, Charlotte's form shifted, reverting to her human features. Slowly, she lifted her head and met his steady gaze, her black eyes burning with determination. "What you said was unfair, Angel, and I'm hurt. Really hurt." She swallowed hard, the next words difficult to say. "But I understand."

Before he could respond, she kept going, this time with a growl behind her words. "And I've decided. I want my memories back! I want to know who and what I am, Angel." She sniffled and silently added, 'Cause I don't want to lose you!

Taking a deep breath, he stood up, adjusted his belt to keep his jeans from falling, and approached her, reaching out his hand. She initially tensed but allowed him to lift her chin, their eyes meeting. He spoke firmly. "Then tomorrow, I'll take you to New Orleans and introduce you to my sister. If anyone can help you, it'll be her."

"Good," Charlotte snipped, her eyes breaking away. Though she accepted his reasons on the surface, the sting of his rejection still tore at her core.

Human emotions sucked, she repeated silently in frustration.

But not all of them. When she'd kissed him, those feelings had enveloped her protectively, shielding her from the misery of the night and making her feel truly safe for the first time in forever. More importantly, he had kissed her in return—she'd felt his need, his hunger, heard it in the way his breathing caught when she touched him.

What he'd said afterward told her everything she needed to know about how he really felt. His rejection wasn't a lack of desire for her; he was trying to protect them both from something neither of them understood. She had to keep holding onto that reality, even when it felt like her heart was breaking.

She thought about what he had just revealed—how he'd torn down his last barrier and laid his soul bare so she could finally understand who he really was. The realization hit her like a cold wave. She had kissed him while he was still raw from reliving his worst memories, had let her feelings take over when he was at his most vulnerable. She'd meant it as comfort, but somewhere in the heat of the instant, it had become something else entirely.

The timing suddenly felt so wrong.

Guilt settling heavy in her gut, she turned to face him, admitting aloud her regret. "I pushed myself onto you, Angel. You were suffering, and I thought I could make you feel a little better. Make myself feel a little better. But you were vulnerable, and I should have waited. I'm sorry."

"No." Angel shook his head firmly, "Please don't apologize. I'm the one who's sorry, Charlotte. I could have handled this so much better. But I want you to know… that, for a beat, you made me feel… normal… wanted. Like I deserved some happiness of my own." His voice faded as he found no other words would comfort her or himself.

But they had. Slightly. With a tremor of her bottom lip, Charlotte tried to smile, the tiny thread of his understanding a sliver of relief.

With awkwardness settling heavily in the air between them, he glanced at the clock on the desk. "We should get some rest. It's a long drive to my sister's place, and we need to leave early if we're going to make it before midnight."

The rear of her throat ached, her soul shivered, and her gut felt twisted, but she agreed. Moving to her bed, she picked up Angel's notebook and glided her fingers over the cover as a new wave of sadness washed over her. Turning, she handed the book to him.

"Good night, Angel," she said curtly.

She noted how bitter it sounded, but she was too exhausted to care. Slipping under her sheets, she rolled away from him, facing the wall.

With a silent goodnight, he stood, walked over to the desk, and turned off the light. Slipping under his own covers, he didn't bother with the blanket and just stared unfocused at the ceiling, his thoughts racing about what he would tell his sister the next day.

He already knew she had an inkling that he was hiding something from her, as her intuition had led to probing questions that he had to answer carefully. Now, she was about to discover just how significant that secret was.

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