I've never been able to describe myself as mundane, but I guess there's a first for everything.

Besides the reoccurring night terrors, things are painfully ordinary. Sin disappears during the day for business and I sit at home and wait for him. Sometimes I go shopping, or take a walk around the block, or go to a café filled with humans and pretend I'm as normal as them. Besides having Theo or Oliver tag along, technically I can do whatever I want; spend as much of Sinclair's money as I need.

It was wonderful at first. Even with the angel bloods, I was never allowed far from Delia's side, and whatever extra wealth was there never found its way into our pockets. But after a while, even perpetually filling my days with extravagant materialism loses its charm. An incredibly prosaic problem I never thought I'd experience.

I sigh, leaning my head on the arm of the couch and slinging my legs over Oliver's lap. "I'm bored."

He moves to push my limbs away but I pull them away and smile cheekily at him before he has the chance. "If I'm being completely honest, I don't care."

"Well, you should." I say, then place my feet back on his thighs. "The more bored I am, the more I'm forced to annoy you for the sake of my own entertainment."

The glare he sends me would cause any right-minded person to freeze in their tracks but it only makes my smile widen. Having him constantly by my side over the past few weeks has taken the frightening edge off his scowl.

"Where should we go?" I say. The ugly expression on his face deepens but it only sends another trill of amusement through my chest. "Food? Are you hungry?"

"No," he says.

"Great." I sit up, making sure to drag my legs along his just to savor the extra spark of anger in his eyes as I rise. "How about Italian?"

...

"I think we're a tad underdressed."

Oliver shrugs, sitting back in his velvet cushioned chair and ignoring the suit-clad waiters that mill around the extravagant dining hall around us. "You wanted Italian. This is it."

"I was thinking more in terms of pizza so greasy it drips down your elbows," I say, glancing nervously at the well-dressed woman that sits at the table beside us as she rakes her eyes down my ripped jeans and oversized black sweater with a sneer. Even the paintings on the walls seem to mock me, the antique portraits of long-dead royalty seeming to look terribly unimpressed with the state of our presence. "How did they even let us in?"

Oliver's dark eyes graze the dark tail that peeks from out of my sleeve. "Take a wild guess."

"What kind of connections doesn't he have?" I murmur, tugging my sleeve down my hand. I wince as the fabric catches against the healing scab from where my stitches were taken out.

I try my best to pretend it's not there. Enjoy living something close to normal for the first time in my life.

But there are times like these, where it snags on my clothing or I'll accidentally brush my hand over the marred skin and I have no choice but to think about Sean's limp body and the overwhelming urge to attach myself to Sinclair each time he leaves in the morning. I swallow thickly, picking up the menu and forcing myself to study the array of strange sounding dishes.

"I have to be reading this wrong," I say disbelievingly as I flip through the pages. "There's no way a singular plate of pasta is a hundred dollars."

Oliver's eyes skim over my clothing as he raises an incredulous eyebrow. "There's no way you're complaining about prices while wearing that Versace-brand garbage."

Okay, so maybe I've spoiled myself a bit since Sin gave me access to his funds. In the midst of wringing myself with worry each time he leaves in the morning, I've come to rely on retail therapy.

And what can I say—it's effective. Most of the time, anyway.

"I am," I say, smoothing the wrinkles out of the soft fabric with my hands. "Because I'll get far more use out of this purchase than I would eating a noodle sprinkled in tomato and lavish-sounding bullshit."

He rolls his eyes.

"Don't be so—" the words die on my tongue as I notice the small frame standing a few feet back from Oliver's chair, staring unblinkingly in our direction.

The little girl wrings her small fingers in front of her, her dark hair pulled into two small braids that sit neatly across her shoulders. She has a frilly pink dress on, her white tights brushed with dirt at the knees. She's a cute kid, and it normally wouldn't surprise me to see a child staring so intently in my direction. Children are like that—nosy, a little rude, but usually it's solely out of innocent curiosity.

But the way she looks at me is wrong. Her features are too stoic for someone so young, almost as if she's fighting intensely not to let any emotion show across her little face.

"You alright, kid?" I try to muster up something close to a comforting smile.

I guess the sentiment doesn't work because she continues to stare at me with that same too-still expression.

"Where are your parents?" I glance nervously at Oliver, who looks at her with such a distasteful expression that I kick him under the table. "Jesus. Is there anyone that you're not awful to?"

He shrugs a shoulder. "Not unless they're paying me."

"Aren't you just a peach," I say, then turn my attention back to the girl. Her hands fiddle with the purse slung over her shoulders. It looks far too big for her, like she's raided her mother's closet for the sake of playing dress-up. "How old are you?"

She's silent for another moment, then quietly murmurs, "Seven."

"Okay," I say, blinking when she takes a few steps closer to me. "What's your name?"

She looks down at where her small fingers scratch at a crease in the blush-dyed leather bag and says nothing.

"Are you lost?" I ask her.

At first I think she isn't going to respond, but then she nods hesitantly and nearly whispers, "Can you help me?"

"Where did you last see them?" I rise from my seat without missing a beat, grunting as Oliver reaches across the table and roughly wraps a hand around my wrist.

"Absolutely not," he says, tugging me back down into my seat. "Sit the fuck down. We'll flag down the staff and let them know."

The little girl's lip wobbles and I shoot him an exasperated glare. "You're going to make her cry."

"What a shame," he says as he picks up the menu and immerses himself in the pages. His body remains tense despite the lax way he eyes his options.

I know he's waiting for me to defy him. God knows he'll have no qualms about throwing me over this shoulder and marching me out of this restaurant if I continue to ignore him. Hell, he'll probably get wicked enjoyment out of watching me become flustered from having so much attention drawn to myself.

"Do you want to sit with us while we get someone to find your parents?" I gesture for her to come closer to our table. Surprisingly, she slowly shuffles up to my side.

I startle as she reaches forward and puts a small clammy palm on my arm. "Please help me," she shakily says, her lip wobbling a bit more. "I need you to come this way."

Oliver sends me a hard look that makes me flinch and slowly pull my arm away from her grasp. "Hey, listen." I lean down so my eyes are level with hers. "It's going to be okay. No tears, okay?"

She stares at me for a moment, blinking rapidly as if trying to rid herself of tears before they rise in her eyes. "Please," she says again. The seriousness of her tone sounds strange with her sweet sounding voice.

I straighten, glancing nervously at Oliver. He eyes her warily, pushing his menu aside.

She reaches for her large purse, closing her hand around an item slightly too big for her hands and tugging it out in front of her. I only recognize the object as she aims it directly at me, her trembling but diligent fingers clicking off the safety.

"Please don't make me kill you," she whispers shakily.

Oliver is diving for her before her finger can properly settle on the trigger. I startle as she fires off a panicked shot, someone's horrified shout indicating that her bullet has hit some luckless soul.

Surprisingly, she doesn't fight as Oliver pries the weapon from her hands and binds an arm around her small torso so she can't writhe against him. She only stares behind me with wide eyes where I'm sure red has splattered over the floor.

Oliver braces himself as people shout and chitter around us, rising from their seats to rush over to the injured person behind us and the door. Distantly, I can hear someone shout for a doctor.

He clicks the safety back on and throws it on the table so I can tuck it in my waistband. "Who the fuck gives a seven year old a gun?"

I have an itching feeling as my eyes graze over the crowd, scanning for the people I already know are there before my gaze settles on them. Ice slithers into my chest as my eyes focus on a familiar head of blonde a few tables away. As if she can sense my stare, her head turns, warm chocolate eyes narrowing as they meet mine.

I curse as the group of people around her rise from their seats and start in our direction. I don't even bother trying to make out their faces as they weave through the panicked crowd that mills around them as I jolt forward and grab Oliver by the bicep.

"I think you know who," I say, surprised how smoothly my voice flows through my throat despite the way my insides tremble. "Get up and fucking run."

...

a/n

Hi. I'm back from my break. I missed you