"Angel," he said, the word scraping out of a throat full of broken glass.
"Who are you?"
His name was a hole in my chest.
But at night, the fisilti came. Whispers in the dark. A voice like cold fire, saying my name like a prayer and a warning all at once. Patch.
He stepped into a shaft of moonlight, and I saw them—shadows moving under his skin, the faint, terrible beauty of something not human. A fallen angel. My guardian. My damnation. Fisilti - Becca Fitzpatrick
I stopped. The air turned electric. Every cell in my body screamed run , but my feet betrayed me, stepping closer.
I had chosen him once. I would choose him again. "Angel," he said, the word scraping out of
And when his cold fingers brushed mine, the whisper grew louder. Not in my ears—in my blood. A name. A promise. A silence finally breaking.