Castillo Del' ?ngel: Marked By Vengeance.

CHAPTER: 32
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Castle.

Immediately I got the camera from Tomas, I sent him back to the club and didn't linger before setting out to Angel's house.

I had one thing in mind as I drove. I would install the cameras, make sure I had eyes on every inch of Angel's house, and disappear before he got back from work.

Simple and clean, no contact and no distractions.

I even swapped my usual ride for a tinted Jeep with plates that couldn't be traced. Then, I parked two streets over and walked the rest of the way with a black duffel slung across my back. I had gloves on and boots, and I walked silently but quickly.

I knew his schedule like I knew the back of my hand. He wasn't supposed to be back for another two hours so I worked fast, moving from room to room as I slipped the cameras into corners, behind frames, and inside vents.

They were exactly what I wanted—small, sleek, and motion-triggered.

I saved the bedroom for last—don't ask me why—and I had just fixed the last lens behind a bookshelf angled perfectly toward the bed when I heard a car door.

My breath hitched and I froze for a moment, before darting to the living room, moving soundlessly as I pulled the curtain back a fraction to peek through.

And what I saw nearly made my heart stop. Angel was staggering toward the door. His shirt was soaked through with blood on one side.

He was pale, and his steps were unsteady, while his hand clutched his shoulder as if he was barely holding himself together.

I told myself to leave, to disappear the way I came. But I stayed frozen, my hand still gripping the curtain.

Angel swayed, fumbling with his keys, and then I saw him fall. The moment he hit the ground, something broke in me.

I was out the back door before I even thought twice. Rounding the side of the house, I saw him lying there, his keys on the concrete, and his breaths were shallow and rapid.

He wasn't moving, but he was twitching slightly like he was still trying to hold on.

"Fuck," I muttered and dropped to my knees beside him.

His skin was ice-cold and his lashes fluttered weakly as he looked up at me with glassy eyes.

Blue met gray and just before his eyes closed, I whispered, "You're going to be okay."

Then, I scooped him into my arms before my logic could stop me. His blood smeared against my shirt and neck as I got the door open and carried him inside.

I laid him face-down on the couch, because it was the only surface that wasn't cluttered with files and empty coffee mugs. His shirt was soaked and sticky, clinging to his skin like a second layer.

I pulled it up carefully and located the wound on his left shoulder. It was a gunshot wound but it was a clean exit.

That was a relief.

But still, it was deep and the bleeding hadn't stopped. My jaw clenched so hard it ached.

Someone fucking shot him.

Someone touched what was mine.

This wasn't the time for anger though and I fought to bury the emotion and concentrate on Angel.

I moved fast, searching the house until I found the bathroom. I started opening cabinets until I spotted a first-aid kit shoved behind some towels.

It wasn't the best I'd worked with, but it would do. By the time I got back to him, his breathing was shallow, too shallow.

"Don't you dare," I whispered, kneeling beside him. "Don't you dare leave me, my Falco."

With steady hands, I pulled out the antiseptic, the surgical tweezers, and gauze. I knew this drill like second nature, after spending too many nights cleaning up myself.

I cut away the fabric soaked in blood and cleaned around the wound with alcohol first. He didn't even flinch, he was completely unconscious.

With a gloved hand, I braced his shoulder and used the tweezers to carefully probe into the muscle, my gaze locked on the dark hole torn through him.

It was deep. The bullet had passed through, but there was debris so I had to go slow.

I worked in silence, the only sound in the house was the click of metal against bone and the low rasp of Angel's breath.

When I was done, I wrapped his shoulder in layers of clean gauze and secured it with tape.

Then I turned him around. He looked so pale and his skin was slick with sweat. What scared me though was the way his chest was rising and falling slowly, but I reassured myself that at least he was breathing steadily.

I sat on the coffee table in front of him and observed him, smiling fondly. He was once the boy I had fallen for, who had somehow become the one fucking thing I couldn't walk away from.

I leaned forward, brushing damp strands of hair from his forehead and whispered, "You're stronger than this, my Angel. You don't get to check out on me. It is you who can gaurd this Castle."

Because I needed him to pull through. If Angel died, I wasn't sure who I'd burn first: his shooter, or myself.

His brow twitched slightly as I watched him, but his eyes stayed closed. Exhaling quietly, I pushed to my feet and rolled my shoulders with a groan.

Then I made my way into his kitchen. He would need fluids when he woke up, and probably food too.

I opened the fridge, not expecting much and I was right.

There were mostly drinks in his fridge. But thank fuck, I found two cans of chicken noodle soup shoved into the back corner.

I grabbed the soup, opened one cabinet, and then another until I found a small pot. I poured the soup in, set it on the stove, and turned the burner on medium.

As it began to heat, the smell of salt and cheap spices filled the kitchen. It reminded me of too many late nights in safehouses and uncompleted buildings when I had gone for missions for my father some years back.

They were places where you had to survive on whatever you could find, and the only thing that held you together was the fact that you were still breathing.

I stirred it gently with a wooden spoon I found in a drawer, not even sure why making this for him mattered so much to me.

He'd probably barely eat when he woke up. He'd definitely glare, ask questions, or try to kill me.

But I was sure he would wake up, and when he did, I didn't want him to wake up to nothing.

When it started to bubble, I turned off the heat and ladled the soup into a white ceramic bowl I found.

Steam curled into the air and I let it sit for a moment before carrying it back to the living room.

Angel still hadn't moved.

So I set the bowl on the table, sat back down on the couch beside him, and waited.