Under His Wing

The ants look like they're having a party.

I concentrate my gaze on these ants, the cold tile pressed into my cheek, as the monster who I'm supposed to call my father lands blow after blow on my crumpled body. The pain is a series of explosions, and yet I try to pin my gaze and thoughts on the ants as a way to ignore it. I wonder if they're having a good time? If they are, then I salute them, since if I were an ant I would spend every waking moment fearing for my life, knowing that anything can crush you at any time.

Not that I don't feel that way now. And yet, it seems like it's about to end soon. My vision is going blurry as my grabs me by the hair and throws me over to the couch. I can barely see him anymore, but I know that the look in his eyes is enraged and crazed. It never ceases to amaze me how

liquid

can do such things to a human being, turn them into monsters if they consume too much of said liquid.

As he backhands me across the face, he's screaming a name, but not mine. My mother's. I treat it like a curse now, how much I look like my mother. Same deep blue doe eyes, same fair skin, same petite figure, same long platinum hair-although this no longer applies. I'd cut my hair in the hopes that it would somehow prevent him from seeing

her

every time he looks at me during his . . . episodes. It's now messy and shoulder-length, and I'd also dyed it a pastel violet color.

As you can obviously tell, that was a very beneficial decision indeed.

And so I lie here on this dingy, plaid living room couch in our cooped up apartment, waiting for death to come down and embrace me, take me away from this creature who had once used his arms to hold me rather than to pummel me relentlessly. And for what? It's not even me that he despises, it's

her

-the woman who one day just up and disappeared, leaving naught but a note that said only three words:

I met someone.

I was cursed to have been born looking like this woman, and now I have to pay the price.

My vision is slipping away from me little by little, and the myriad of pain I feel goes with it. Suddenly it stops completely, and as the darkness slowly consumes my eyes, I catch a glimpse of what look like . . .

Feathers?

It's the last thing I see before I fall into oblivion.

*****

Consciousness toys with me. Greets me one moment and leaves me abruptly the next.

The world around me is still a blur every time I open my eyes. Even that task alone is taxing, as if my eyelids weigh thousands of pounds.

I feel pain, of course. Pain is always there. But I also feel . . . arms, holding me. Strong arms that could easily shatter me but instead keep me encased in warmth and safety. I also hear powerful, rhythmic

whoosh

ing sounds, and I can't place what they are.

I don't even have time to contemplate before the darkness swallows me whole once more.

*****

When I finally do wake, I'm resting on top of clouds.

Well, not really, but the bed beneath me is so white and so soft that it could easily pass as clouds if you close your eyes and just let your body sink into it, which I do. For a moment I just don't bother thinking about anything at all, choosing to enjoy this feeling.

Key words: for a moment.

My eyes open and I lift myself up to examine my surroundings. It takes a while for my vision to clear, but once it does, I see that I'm in a spacious, clean bedroom. The colors in the room are different shades of white and beige, and the room looks like the master bedroom of a mansion. There's a bookshelf, a sitting area, and even a marble fireplace with ornate, golden motifs. The drapes are closed, but thin slivers of sunlight filter through it.

The door is ajar, and the smell of food wafts into the room from outside. I take a whiff of it and it immediately awakens my stomach, making it emit a fierce growl.

How in the world did I end up

here

? The last thing I remember was being beaten near to death by my father, and the overwhelming amount of pain that-

Wait.

Pain. I suddenly realize that I feel . . . none.

With a jolt, I push off the covers and examine my body. I'm wearing a white, knee-length nightgown-whoever had saved me must have changed me, too. But this is not what makes me gasp. What makes me gasp is my skin. Or rather, what isn't present on my skin: bruises.

There's nothing. Completely smooth, unharmed, not even a single scar. How is this even possible?

A thought crosses my mind. A thought that I think is too stupid to admit out loud:

Am I dead?

How my body is completely devoid of bruises, how everything is in an ethereal shade of white. Could it be that I'd died, and this is heaven? A part of me wants to laugh out loud at the absurdity of this thought, but another part of me is actually considering it as a possibility. How else can this be explained?

If it is indeed true, I just didn't expect heaven to be . . . a bedroom. Call me cliche, but I'd expected vast meadows, angels flying around, rainbows, unicorns, the whole shebang. Although the overwhelming

white

ness of my surroundings does have a certain . . . heavenly quality to it. Either that or the owner of the house-the person who'd saved me, I'm assuming-considers white to be their favorite color.

"You're awake."

As if on cue, I see them-him-now in the doorway. My jaw drops instantly, and I have to force it back up. The young man standing before me is very tall, possibly six-foot-five, give or take. Bronze skin, inky black hair that's cut short and tousles upwards in spikes, and deep gray eyes with flecks of gold in them. His face is chiseled, as if he's a statue of a Greek god come to life, and his form is no different. The long-sleeved V-neck shirt he's wearing does little to accomodate his powerful physique; broad shoulders, a wide chest and arms packed with muscle.

I'd never seen someone so incredibly attractive in my life. Not even celebrities or models. Seeing him makes me think the heaven statement might not be so ridiculous after all.

He leans against the doorway, and the look on his face makes me both melt and feel a zap of familiarity. His eyes are warm, and the smile on his face is kind and genuine. I suddenly realize that I know this man, somehow. Not him personally, but his appearance. His smile. It had been like a constant presence in my life. I would always catch glimpses of him, but they were just that: glimpses. Each time I try to turn back to where I'd seen him, he would be gone. A logical person would probably think that this is a tad creepy and stalkerish, but it never felt that way to me. It almost felt as if he was simply just . . . watching over me. And the fact that he'd saved me just now seems like solid enough proof.

But why, though? Why has he been watching over me all this time, and why did he save me? We don't even know each other. And yet, he looks at me as if he's known me my whole life.

"Umm . . . Yeah, I suppose I am," I say weakly. My voice is hoarse, and I clear my throat.

He stands there for several heartbeats longer, and then walks towards me. Carefully, I notice, like he's afraid I might back away from him or be afraid of him, when in all honesty there's not even an iota of fear in me. Even though I have no idea who this man is, his presence makes me feel secure. "I'm guessing you want to know what happened?" he asks with a somewhat apologetic smile. His voice is deep and comforting. Hearing it feels like a sip of hot chocolate on a cold winter night.

I nod, and he takes a deep breath, biting his lip. He suddenly looks nervous. "Okay, if I try explaining it to you, I'll sound crazy, so I'm going to have to show you first." I furrow my eyebrows, and he adds, "Don't freak out, okay?"

. . . Huh? "Why would I freak out?" I ask, confused.

With another breath, he closes his eyes. Suddenly, a golden light emits from his back, and out furls massive, milky-white wings. This time when my jaw drops I can't even raise it anymore. He stretches them, making the ivory feathers dance slightly, but then he lets his wings disappear again, seeing my expression of utter shock.

"I'm your Guardian," he says. "In my home realm of Etherea right above Earth, some angels take a test to become a Guardian, and I passed mine when I was fourteen. You were the mortal I was assigned to, and at the time, you were eleven." That was when my mother had left, I realize. Exactly ten years ago.

"A Guardian's job is to descend to earth and watch over their assigned mortal," he continues. "The higher-ranked ones are mostly charged to protect important public figures and world leaders. We are sworn to do all of this while never revealing ourselves and never being seen. As you have probably realized by now, I . . . I broke that code." His expression is sorrowful, and yet I don't see any regret in his eyes. "I had to. I couldn't sit idly by while your

father

," he says the word like it's poison on his tongue, the same way I would, "just utterly destroyed you like that. I couldn't let you die. And not because it would cost me my title, but because I . . . I cared too much for you to do that."

"But," I interrupt, unable to help myself, "why? You barely know me."

He looks deep into my eyes, and even though he's far away, I can't help but let myself drown in his. "When a Guardian fails to do his job, meaning the mortal that they are assigned to dies-excluding dying of old age and natural causes, of course-they are stripped of their title and their wings. They are also banished to the mortal realm for life. However, when your father almost killed you in that moment, I wasn't thinking about any of that. All I truly wanted was your safety, because even though I never got to know you personally, I've watched over you for so long that I

felt

like I knew you." His words are heartfelt and genuine, as is his gaze. "I know I broke the code by interfering and revealing myself to you, but . . . I don't really care. I've realized that I

want

to get to know you, and I want to keep you safe without having to hide from you every moment of my life."

I feel tears pricking my eyes. I never expected someone to care this much about me, let alone someone who didn't even really know me. "But what's going to happen to you?" I ask, worried. "What's the punishment for breaking the code?"

He waves it off. "You don't have to worry about that. The punishment for interference is just being stripped of my title. But the mere fact that I would be able to actually talk and spend time with you is a reward on its own." My heart flutters at his words, but he clears his throat and blushes-actually

blushes

-while scratching the back of his head, looking down at the floor. "I'm sorry, I don't want to seem too . . . forward. It's just that I've always been so eager to

really

get to know you. That's why you're probably feeling like you've seen me before, because there were many times where I intentionally showed myself to you, even if they were just for a second or two. It was so that when I actually revealed myself to you, you wouldn't think me a complete stranger."

He looks so apologetic all of a sudden, and I smile shyly. "You shouldn't apologize for anything. You . . . you saved my life. You got me away from that

monster

," I spit out the word, and then ask, "What happened to him, really? The whole thing is a blur to me."

"I knocked him unconscious and flew us away from him," he says.

"And where are we now?"

"We're in the home that my parents had made when they descended here on earth." He's silent for a moment, and then says, "In Paris."

"Paris?!" I exclaim, eyes wide. He strides over to the curtains and opens them, revealing a balcony. I squint my eyes in the bright glare of the morning sun. Sure enough, I see the Eiffel Tower looming in the distance.

He then approaches me and holds out his hand. I take it and he helps me get out of the bed. His hand is strong and warm against my delicate one.

I'd thought I would need the help, but unsurprisingly, I feel fine. Which brings me to my next question. "Why am I completely bruise-free and feel no pain?"

"Oh, that's right. I kinda used my magic on you." He chuckles. "Each angel is given a different kind of magic, and Guardians are usually healers."

I nod, still letting all of this sink in. I guess I'm glad that he showed me his wings before all these explanations, because otherwise I would have been a lot more skeptical than I am now. After seeing a guy unfurl his huge wings, there's really no room to be skeptical anymore. If he told me unicorns exist, I'd most likely believe him.

"You're probably starving," he says with a warm smile as he heads to the door. "I'll wait right outside while you change. Oh, and don't worry about clothes. I managed to take as much as I could of yours from the apartment, and they're in the wardrobe." He gestures to the dresser. "I can take you shopping later if you'd like."

His thoughtfulness soothes me, and I can only smile back as he closes the door and lets me change. When I open the wardrobe, I see a few of my favorite clothes hanging in it, along with some undergarments. I blush when I realize that he must have bathed me himself. Tingles spread through me, but not because I'm creeped out by the thought, even though I probably should be. He doesn't seem like someone who would just take advantage of me like that. I shake my head from these thoughts and slip out of the nightgown, once again marveling at my now smooth, untouched skin. I settle for wearing an off-the-shoulder, medium-sleeved gray tunic, skinny jeans, and comfy black ballet flats. I examine myself in the mirror quickly before I go outside. Even though I'm not wearing any makeup, my face somehow still looks fresh. I wonder how he managed to do that.

I open the door and he greets me. "Ready for breakfast?" he asks.

"Just one more question," I say to him. "I'm sure you already know my name, but wouldn't it be a bit awkward if I still didn't know yours at this point."

He laughs softly, and the sound delights me. "That is true. Maybe we should start over." He clears his throat and flashes me a charming grin. "Hi there, I'm Kieran. What's your name?"

He holds out a hand. I can't help but let out a chuckle and take it. "Nice to meet you, Kieran. I'm Mirabelle."

"Mirabelle," he echoes softly, and reaches down to kiss the back of my hand. I try not to let him see that his lips touching my skin sends tingles throughout every inch of my body. "What a lovely name."

After we get the introductions out of the way, he leads me through the hallway and out to the foyer. I realize that my hand is still in his when we walk down the stairs in the big foyer of the mansion. My eyes are wide as I take in the marble walls and glossy wood floors. A huge candelabra hangs from the ceiling right smack dab in the middle. A long, burgundy carpet stretches vertically from the front door and up the stairs, becoming diagonal as it extends to the halls on either side of the second floor where there are an array of doors. I assume the upstairs is reserved for bedrooms, but you never know with mansions. He leads me down the steps and then to the right side of the stairs. The dining room is to my right, themed in dark brown and red colors, while the kitchen I'm surprised to see has a more modern touch to it; sleek in design and themed in pastels.

The table is already set, I realize, only two plates of omellettes and two glasses of orange juice. It's a very simplistic breakfast menu, but it still makes my mouth water.

"I'm not exactly much of a cook," he says as we move toward the mahogany dining table. "But this was the best possible omelette I could make, so I hope you enjoy."

He pulls out a seat for me at the left edge of the table, and I say a soft "thank you" as I sit down. He smiles sits down beside me, at the head of the table.

The omellette is delicious, but I try my best not to completely devour it and make a fool of myself in front of him. I sip my glass of orange juice and then glance at him. "So are your parents away? Or do you live here alone?"

His eyes turn sad just the tiniest bit. "They passed away, years ago."

"Oh . . . I'm sorry." I guess I just assumed that angels were immortal or something. "How did . . . they die, if you don't mind me asking?"

"There was war brewing in Etherea at the time. A legion of rebels called the Darkwings launched an attack to one of the training facilities. My mother and father happened to be there, helping out the troops. They were killed in the attack." His voice cracks, but he clears his throat and straightens. "They'd built this house since before I was born, as a place to stay for when there were earthly duties to attend to. When I became a Guardian, they handed over this house to me to live in when I needed to, and also their fortune."

"This may not be a very appropriate question, but . . . Angels are only susceptible to death from killing, right?" I ask. "Because I just assumed you were immortal or something."

He chuckles softly. "It's alright, I can understand why you would be curious. No, we die of old age as well, but we just have much longer lifespans than humans. The oldest living angel in Etherea is 500 years old." My eyes widen. "He's the emperor. Although, it is probably due to his royal blood. Angelic royalty in Etherea tend to last longer than other angels. The average age when an angel dies is usually around 250."

"Wow," I say in awe. It's the only thing I can even think to say at this moment.

We chat for the remainder of the hour. He tells me more about Etherea and angel culture, and also about Nephilim-otherwise known as half-bloods, the product of an angel and a human. I'm surprised to learn that human and angel relationships are a lot more common than I would've guessed, and that there are thousands upon thousands of Nephilim on earth today. They are not allowed in Etherea, however.

Curious, I then ask him how it would work with human and angel relationships when the human dies of old age much faster. He tells me that most don't usually last that long, but in some cases, the angel goes to Etherea and gives the human they love nectar from a certain rare Etherean flower. It grants the human the same lifespan as the angel, so that they would be able to truly spend a lifetime together. A part of me finds it romantic, but the other part also finds it a bit unappealing. What would you even look like at age 200-ish? I voice this question and he clarifies that the appearances of angels and humans that were given the nectar mostly keep their youth. So when they reach 150, they would look like a middle-aged person, around fifty or forty-five. And at 200 up to 250, they'd be considered elderly and would look seventy or eighty.

The conversation soon shifts to more mundane topics, and I'm surprised that he actually enjoys life on earth, and had the time to explore all kinds of earthly pleasures. He tells me that, during times where I would be safe from harm, he'd take that time for himself and take up hobbies. I almost ask him if he'd ever dated or even had . . . other relations . . . with human females-or males-but I don't. I don't even really want to know. I assume with his heart-poundingly beautiful looks, he's had a lot of experience. Oh well, it's not as if I'm completely celibate either. I wouldn't say I'm experienced, but I'm definitely not a prude.

We finish our food and then he asks if I'd like to go out. Not in

that

way, of course. He just means go out as in explore the city, maybe go shopping. I say yes.

*****

Before I know it, the days stretch into weeks, which soon stretch out into a whole month. In that time, Kieran and I grew so much closer to each other, and we talked about so many things that the awkwardness between us completely dissipated soon enough. Well, almost. I still can't help but get the jitters every time I'm around him, as if there's a whole flock of butterflies fluttering around in my chest and stomach.