Page 74 of Eyes Like Angel

Micah and I were assigned to the kitchens, instructed by Sister Edith, who relayed a message by Mrs. Rivers. Initially we were supposed to be taking over shifts—three hours each turns. Micah’s did his duty since eight o’clock sharp, now it’s my turn to take over the kitchens since the other nuns and volunteers were distributing other replicated materials—clothes and blankets for the shelter Mr. Rivers contributed to the town. Right now, my shift has struck at one o’clock. To think Micah was okay with doing the dishes after I put them aside, maybe I should try to—

“I’d be happy to help you, sweet angel. But guess again,” the deeper voice insisted.

Sweet angel,my mind raced.

Turning around, my heart stopped, closing in on dropping the tray. I couldn’t move and take another step—trapped.

Staggered back, I drew a soft intake of breath, studying him.

Recognizing the slight curls of his long light-blond hair tied to a low ponytail, his widow’s peak, his lithe, muscled arms crossed tight on a black fitting shirt, soft outlined of his abdomen flexed beneath his leathered jacket and his hands worn in leather gloves, pitch-black eyes monitoring my every move. The light glowed, accentuated his eyes in anger, though I assumed annoyance rather than personally being infuriated.

Thin trace of fiery silver-blue on the irises observed me, like the silver rings lit in the dark.

My bosom coiled, the air in the kitchen suddenly blistered, assigned chores forgotten, chances of discontent arises within my thinking, filling in unmerciful consequences.

There he was—Adrian Rivers in the flesh—a son of a CEO casually leaning in by the doorway, crossing his strapping arms, his gaze darkened.

One person who I was trying to avoid.

Gathering my composure, I bolted towards the exit door at the back, leading myself back at the main hall, thinking I escaped from him, my hands shaken at his approach, but steadied it when releasing the door’s lock and dashed to the spaced grip in the hall, until a hand clasped my arm and pulled me, pinned me against the solid wall.

Yelping, he kept me still, entrapped, lips pressed in, shutting my yelping screams screeching, not wanting a wrong bystander assuming an immoral judgement.

“This area is for the church staff members only,” I reminded him in strict tone I could muster, as my heart thundered, part of the notions wishes for him to scurry off.

How he infiltrated inside the forbidden area was unknown to me. The ones who have access to the kitchens in a restricted area were me and Micah—we both had access the key.

But Adrian doesn’t have one.

“I had to see you,” he rasped, inhaling. “I couldn’t let you stay far forever. Why have you been avoiding me?” His face leaned in; he dared me to look into his blazing darkest eyes.

Realization dawned on me.

Wait…

Was he…following me?

Gulping, I considered a response, one where I can convince him.

And it drew a blank.

A long ring registered in my consciousness.

I got nothing.

I got nothing, not a sound to blur out.

I don’t know what to answer him. In fact, I don’t know how to respond to a man like him. I suppose men were acting so impulsive. I’ve seen men begged but they begged for their lives to be spared from shame, to save their image, fortune and reputation, dropped onto their knees or bashed their knuckles on the wall—one can’t prolonged the silence pressed in. I’ve seen women walking away to these kinds of incident when men liked to cause a scene, sometimes their doting mothers were set sights on scolding young women and drag them to the dirt—tarnished for eternity.

But the knowledge I’ve obtained, the right choice was to stay silent and walk away, pretending men don’t exist, as if men are an ancient species due to their downfall. And no mothers were showing up. I cannot share the same input for the fathers.

Friendships were another story to tell.

My whole life was known for flight, never responded. And I always cried alone, like I always do. Even if I did explain, whatwould that prove? Only getting beaten and berated, my words, the way I offended someone—often backfired, forcing to bend my knees and beg for forgiveness. When theyaskedfor me to be gentle, and when I do it, it’s also wrong. To them, everything was wrong.

Everything wasn’t decent enough to pass the flying colors.

Offended and displeased.