Claimed by the Fallen: A Fallen Angel Reverse Harem Novel (The Fallen Harem Book 1)

by Samantha Britt

  Demon? I must be going crazy.

  My stomach churns, and I continue to throw up bile. I can feel eyes on my back, but I’m too weak to look up and return the stare.

  “I already told you, we are not taking her. She isn’t ready.” A second voice speaks, and my body physically starts at the sound. I know I’ve heard it before, but the memory is from a long time ago. I can’t place it.

  Again, I think I must be going crazy.

  “More are going to find her,” the first one replies. He sounds irritated.

  “Then we will just have to make sure to protect her for the time being,” the semi-familiar voice says calmly. “Now, heal her while I go check on her friend. We need to clean up this mess before anyone sees.”

  A begrudging grunt is the next sound I hear. Then, a strong hand is placed on my back. Tingles spread across my ribs and spine. I feel the sensation travel down my limbs, wrapping every part of me in comforting warmth.

  My eyelids droop, and my arms give out. Before I fall face-first into vomit, I am swung up towards the sky. The last thing I see is a firm jawline, outlined by a twinkling, cloudless sky. Vaguely, I think I see blond whiskers peppering the man’s cheekbone. Then, I succumb to darkness.

  Seven

  The morning after the concert, I wake up feeling sick to my stomach. I throw back my quilt and hurry to the bathroom. I barely have time to lift the porcelain lid before I am vomiting into the toilet bowl. I purge the remaining nausea caused by my horrific and violent nightmare.

  My imagination elicits the image of the gangly creature, and I relive the hallucination of seeing black wings fly past me. I can still hear the squelch of flesh as a sword is rammed through the monster’s abdomen. I gag and throw up more stomach acid.

  “Ronnie?” My mom’s voice sounds from the doorway. Seeing me, she is quick to lift my thick hair and hold it away from my face. “Oh, honey.”

  She waits for a break in my vomiting before asking, “Did you eat something bad at the concert?”

  I rest my cheek against the toilet seat, too sick to note the act is unsanitary. I think back to the previous evening. Other than soda, I hadn’t consumed anything. And I know nothing fishy had been put in my drink. I’d been diligent about watching the bartender when he poured my drink.

  “No,” I tell her. “The last time I ate was at The Pier.”

  Another wave of nausea hits me, and I almost throw up on myself.

  “Maybe your stomach is upset because it is empty,” Mom guesses.

  I lift a weak hand and flush the toilet. I sit back, feeling exhausted. “Maybe.”

  “Let’s get you back to bed. I’ll bring you crackers and ginger ale to help settle your tummy,” my mom adopts her babying voice, but I feel too awful to care.

  Mom helps me stand. She dampens a washcloth and wipes my face before leading me back to my bedroom.

  Feeling gross, I insist I change out of my pajamas. They are damp from sweating during my nightmare. Mom nods and says she will be right back before she ducks out of the room, closing the door behind her.

  I slip off my shorts with no problem, but my tank top is another issue. I moan as I lift the material up and over my head. I’m weak, and the fact makes me wonder if my sickly state is due to more than lingering effects of the very vivid nightmare.

  I change into a loose top and a different set of boxer-like bottoms. I’m crawling back into bed when my mom re-enters. She holds the door open and my dad is behind her, carrying a tray of toast, crackers, orange juice, and ginger ale.

  “Hey there, sweetheart. Your mom said you aren’t feeling well.” Dad walks over and puts the tray on the nightstand. He sits on the edge of my queen-sized bed and leans over to press a hand against my forehead. “No fever, though. So that’s a good sign.” My dad is a dermatologist. Most of the time, I forget he’s a real doctor. I’m so used to hearing him discuss moles, acne, and warning me about skin cancer, I forget he spent four years in medical school learning about much more than skin. Besides, I’m rarely sick. It’s not like Dad had to use his doctor skills on me as I grew up.

  I lean against my pillows and assess my body. I don’t feel warm. If anything, I’m a little chilled. But I refrain from telling him that. All I want is to lie down and sleep off whatever funk is affecting my body. “Mom thinks I have an empty stomach,” I offer as a distractor.

  “Hm. She might be right.” Dad leans back and hands me a cracker. I sit up and he helps me adjust the pillows. I rest against them with my back elevated. “Try to eat but don’t make yourself sick.”

  Dutifully, I bite the cracker. It sticks in my throat. Mom, ever observant, hands me the ginger ale. I take a cautious sip, worried how my stomach will react. Thankfully, it doesn’t immediately try to heave it back up.

  Both of my parents watch me with concern. It’s times like this when I wished I had siblings. Being their only child, Oliver and Janet Messenger are known to hover over me. They love me, I get it, but love can easily become smothering if you aren’t careful.

  As further evidence of her helicopter-parent ways, Mom tells Dad, “We should stay here and make sure Ronnie is okay. I’ll call Pastor Richard and tell him someone else needs to watch the nursery today.”

  “No,” I quickly object. A piece of cracker gets stuck in my throat and I cough. I cringe, knowing it doesn’t help my cause. I sip the ginger ale until my throat clears.

  I continue, “I’m just going to sleep. I have food and stuff to drink. Go. I’ll be fine.” I know Mom and Dad will constantly check in on me the if they stay home. I’d hardly be able to rest with their well-meant interruptions.

  “Are you sure, sweetheart?” Dad pushes a sweaty strand of hair away from my face. “We just want to make sure you’re okay.”

  “I’ sure,” I tell him. “Thanks, though.”

  Dad smiles softly and tucks the blanket around me before standing up. My mom looks less willing to go along with my request, but she finally dips her head in agreement. She offers me some more crackers, and I take them. Then, both of my parents leave my room, telling me they will check on me the moment they get back from church.

  I wave weakly as Mom shuts the door. Once I’m alone, I let my arm fall and I drop the crackers onto my lap. My body aches. I hadn’t noticed the pain earlier—I’d been too distracted with vomiting—but now that I no longer feel nauseous, my sore muscles and tender skin moan in agony.

  I recognize the symptoms of the flu, minus the fact I don’t have a fever. I’m about to burrow into my covers for warmth when I hear scratches at my door, followed by a familiar whine.

  I groan. Periwinkle, my miniature Goldendoodle, wants in my room.

  Periwinkle joined the family on my sixteenth birthday. I’d always wanted a dog, but my dad’s allergies prevented us from being able to get one. That is, until I discovered Periwinkle’s hypoallergenic breed. My parents had been nervous about getting a pet, but I spent the better part of my freshman year begging and pleading for them to let me get one. I was over the moon when they finally agreed.

  Now, two years later, none of us could imagine life without our fourth family member. I love Periwinkle with all of my heart, and she is a clever, but also needy, dog. She knows I’m in my bedroom, and she won’t stop scratching until I let her in.

  Clenching my teeth, I manage to push myself out of bed. I stumble towards the door and nearly fall against it. I close my eyes and breathe until the wave of dizziness passes. Periwinkle whimpers on the other side of the wood.

  I turn the knob and open the door. Periwinkle’s long, curly tail whips from side to side, excited to have gained entry. I close the door behind her.

  I hold out a hand, but I’m sure I’ll fall over if I try to bend down to pet her. Instead, I shuffle back towards my bed and urge her to follow. “Come on, Peri.”

  I slide onto the mattress as gracefully as I can manage, rearranging the quilt over me. Then, I say, “Up.”

  Periwinkle leaps onto the bed. I watch her c
ircle around until she plops down beside my legs. She rests her head on my knee, watching me with big brown eyes. I scratch her ears for a minute before I am forced to lean back into my pillows. Now, my head feels heavy.

  Wanting nothing more than to get over whatever ails my body, I close my eyes to try to fall asleep. I feel Peri shift, and I hear when she finds the crackers I’d left on the bed. She devours them quickly, but I don’t have it in me to try and stop her.

  I tune out every noise and feeling. I let my mind clear, and I coax oblivion forward. Oddly enough, I’m distracted by the memory of a chiseled jaw from my nightmare. I’m surprisingly intrigued, and I try to expand my vision to see the rest of the face attached to the jawline.

  But before I succeed, my wish for sleep is granted, and I fall into a blessedly, dreamless slumber.

  By the time my parents return from church, I haven’t improved much. I’m not throwing up, but my entire body continues to ache, and my chest constricts like it did yesterday.

  I’m wondering if I’d unintentionally ignored early symptoms of my illness when my dad comes in to check on me. He probes me with questions, and I admit my pain symptoms. Immediately, he insists I drink an entire glass of water. Then, he gives me a flu-relief soft gel to swallow.

  The medicine takes effect quickly. The pressure around my chest dulls, and the drowsy side-effect hits. I long to fall into another nap, but my mom sits with me and watches as I eat a grilled-cheese sandwich. She will not let me relax until I finish the meal. She claims I need the calories and energy to fight off my illness.

  I finally complete her demands, and she leaves me be. I pass out for another three hours. When I wake, I manage to get out of bed and find my parents sitting in the living room. I’m huffing by the time I reach the bottom of the stairs, and they both jump out of their seats when they see me.

  “What are you doing, young lady?”

  “You need to be in bed!”

  Both of my parents speak at the same time.

  My legs wobble, but I wave away their concern. “I’m okay. I need to move around. I was thinking about maybe going to my kickboxing class? I won’t do most of the exercises, but I think sweating a little might help me get over this.” In reality, I just can’t stand the thought of lying in bed any longer.

  “Absolutely not.” My mom is at my side in an instant. She begins to nudge me back up the stairs. “Go back to your room.”

  I resist her prodding. “But I feel better.” It’s not a total lie. After all, I’m actually able to walk without fainting now.

  Dad appears next to me, too. “Which is why you shouldn’t overdo it. Give your body time to fully recover before you go back to training.”

  I’m bummed out by their immediate dismissal. I knew the chances they’d agree were slim, but I’d hoped I’d at least have the chance to try and convince them.

  “Working out might help me feel better,” I say in one more attempt. “Please?”

  “No,” Mom won’t hear of it. “You already go to that studio more than you should. You come back with all sorts of bruises and sore muscles. I’m not convinced that place is good for you on a normal day, let alone when you are sick.”

  I look at Dad with pleading eyes. He’s the one who first got me into the sport. Surely, he will side with me.

  I’m disappointed when he shakes his head. “Maybe tomorrow, sweetheart, but no kickboxing today.”

  I know I’ve lost the battle. “Fine… whatever.” I stomp weakly up to my room. Again, my breathing is ragged by the time I get there.

  I understand I’m acting a little childish. But despite what my mom said, it’s been a week since I’ve been to a kickboxing class. Studying for finals during the weekdays, graduation on Friday, and my birthday on Saturday had kept me too busy. I yearn for the chance to work out my muscles. It’s an addicting habit, and definitely more harmless than other habits I might partake in.

  I first started kickboxing when I was fourteen. My dad and I had enrolled in a promotional self-defense class structured for fathers and daughters. At first, I loathed the idea. The class did not seem like something I’d enjoy doing. But my dad had watched one too many news stories about teenage girls being abducted, and he jumped on the opportunity for me to learn to defend myself.

  So, we attended the class.

  Immediately, I fell in love with sparring. Dad had been kickboxing for years, but that was the first time he’d exposed me to the combat sport. I found myself wishing he’d dragged me along sooner. We had a blast every Monday and Thursday night during the month-long self-defense class. But on the last day of class, one of the studio’s teenage employees suggested I join a beginner’s class.

  Zeke.

  My heart flutters just thinking about him.

  If ever there was a broody bad boy with a secret heart of gold, it would be Zeke.

  I noticed him almost from the moment I first stepped into the kickboxing studio. With hair the color of hay, eyes like warm chocolate with hazelnut accents and a body like a Grecian god, Zeke was hard to miss. I’d spent the entire month in the self-defense class, but Zeke hadn’t spoken to me once. While my father and I worked with the middle-aged instructors, Zeke and the studio’s owner worked with the younger girls and their dads. That was probably the first, and only, time I’d ever wished I was still a preteen.

  To say I’d been happy when Zeke spoke to me after that final class would be an understatement. I hadn’t realized he even knew I existed, much less thought I might want to join the beginner’s kickboxing class. My optimistic, teenage heart hoped he may have been watching me as much as I’d watched him.

  Obviously, I convinced my parents to let me continue with the classes. I showed up the following Monday to the beginner’s class. Imagine my surprise when I discovered Zeke, himself, was the lead instructor for that particular class. I became a dedicated student. And, dare I say it, Zeke and I became pseudo-friends, as well.

  That is not to say Zeke and I grew as close as I am with Joey or Annie, but we definitely had some form of friendship developing between us.

  Though he appeared to be standoffish, Zeke was nice to me. He would wait with me outside of the studio for my parents to pick me up. I remember feeling childish. Zeke was so cool, and there I was, a lowly fourteen-year-old, waiting for mommy and daddy to take me home.

  The first couple of nights, I barely said a word to Zeke. I’d been too nervous to do more than hold my gym bag tight and wait in silence.

  Then, I don’t know what happened. I guess I had a momentary rise in bravery because I actually spoke to Zeke. I can’t recall, exactly, what I said, but I think it was something about kickboxing. Maybe how long he’d been participating in the sport?

  Whatever the question had been, it served its purpose. Zeke actually talked. He answered my question, and then asked me one of his own. Each subsequent night, we grew more and more comfortable around one another. Zeke was quiet, but I realized that didn’t mean he was unfriendly. He’d been nice to me, and I started to live for those two nights a week when I would get the chance to speak with him. Until they suddenly ended.

  I rub my chest, recalling the Monday three months later when Zeke stopped showing up to kickboxing class. The new instructor took over our instruction, and I never saw Zeke again.

  I think my heart may have broken a little that day. I can’t explain why, but I felt like Zeke and I had a connection. Maybe it was the draw of two quiet, introverted souls to one another, or maybe it was something more. Whatever the case, I’m destined to never find out. I asked the studio owner and workers what happened to Zeke, but no one could tell me anything. Apparently, he just disappeared without saying a word to anyone. It was the strangest thing.

  Shaking my head, I clear my mind of the memories. Zeke is gone. I don’t even know what caused me to dwell on thoughts of him.

  I plop onto my bed and turn on the T.V. I feel cooped up, and I hope I can find something to distract me. The pain in my body has dulled to
a low cadence. With any luck, it will be gone by tomorrow so I can take my dad up on the offer to go to the studio. I drink another glass of ginger ale and swallow six crackers. I switch the channels until I land on a rom-com, petting Peri who is content to nap on my bed, and will time to fly by.

  Eight

  I end up having the most tedious Sunday afternoon ever. I spend hours watching cheesy movies and dumb reality T.V. shows. There really isn’t anything interesting on cable before six o’clock.

  Bored of television, I attempt to complete a Sunday school lesson. Annie had texted me the lesson details after I missed church. She and I had been going to the same church since we were five, and she knows how much I like learning about the bible in Sunday school. That is not to say I don’t like sermons, just that I get more out of reading and analyzing biblical text on my own. The insightful lessons feel more rewarding than simply sitting in a pew and being talked at. But that’s just my opinion.

  I read through Daniel: Chapter Ten twice before I tell myself I will complete the lesson tomorrow. I’m feeling better, but I’m too distracted to decipher the cryptic, prophetic words archangel Michael delivered to the son of David. My chest chooses that moment to clench again, and it takes several steadying breaths before the muscles return to a relaxed state.

  I’m browsing through the shows on the video streaming app when my mom raps on the doorframe. I’d opened the door a while ago when Peri signaled she wanted out of the room. She’d been back and forth a couple of times, so I figured it was smart to leave it open rather than waste energy climbing out of bed every time she whined.

  “Knock, knock.” Mom enters. “Up for another snack?”

  On cue, my stomach grumbles. Mom smiles brightly. “Well, that’s a good sign!” She moves closer and hands me a bowl of soup, positioned on a plate with a spoon.

  Normally, I’d say it is too hot to enjoy the warm meal, but a slight chill still lingers in my body. The aroma of tomato and basil fills my nostrils, increasing my hunger. On cue, Peri trots inside. She lifts her snout towards my soup. She probably followed the scent all the way from the kitchen. I tell her to sit as Mom hands me the bowl.