Fisilti - Becca Fitzpatrick -

I'd trace the ghost of a wing on my shoulder blade, feel the phantom press of lips on my forehead, and my heart would race—not with fear, but with a grief so ancient it felt like a second skeleton. My mother watched me with careful eyes. My best friend, Vee, filled the silence with chatter, hoping to drown out the questions I couldn't voice.

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.

"You wrote this," he said. "Before they took your memory. Before they tried to unmake us." Fisilti - Becca Fitzpatrick

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.

"Who are you?"

I had chosen him once. I would choose him again.

Then I saw him. Leaning against a graveyard oak, black jeans soaked through, a crooked smile that didn't reach his haunted eyes. The rain parted around him, as if even the sky knew to kneel. I'd trace the ghost of a wing on

"Angel," he said, the word scraping out of a throat full of broken glass.