Novels by Blessing

CHELSEA The dark peephole glares back at me. I have a job to do. Taking a deep breath, I press the doorbell. The soft ring carries across the hallway. Moments later, Dante opens the door. Once again, my gaze meets his dark green eyes, and all I can think of is how I want to gouge those eyes out. No. That will have to wait. "Come in," he steps aside to let me in, his face more at ease, and for the first time, I notice his looks. And they were not wrong when they said the devil was the most beautiful angel in heaven. This man may actually be the devil, but he is devastatingly beautiful. Eyes like the forest caught in a stormy sky, and lips that— Fuck, focus. I step in past him into the warmth of his apartment, and he closes the door behind us. Shivers prickle my skin as he leads me to the dining table on the left side of the apartment, a half wall separating the kitchen from the dining area. He seems to be fond of half walls. "So this is the list of my most important emails and

CHELSEA I can't believe I have to go through this every morning. Shit. I take a deep breath, straining against the urge to rip the hairband into shreds. This is what I get for being Iraqi. Hair as thick as a fucking forest. After more attempts than I care to count, I finally pull my hair into a neat ponytail without stray strands flying about like they don't belong on my scalp.I mean I could just let my hair loose but it has a tendency to be rather wild. And nothing is gonna stand between me and Dante. Not even my own hair. Staring at my reflection in the large mirror, I force a wide smile onto my face. "Good morning, Mr. Romano," I say to the mirror with a wide and noticeably fake smile. My eyes alone carry the weight of the pain and anger that even the smile can't hide. Guess I'll have to really get into character. "Good morning, Mr. Romano," I repeat to the mirror, filling my mind with every good memory my less-than-beautiful life has accumulated. This time, my smile reac

CHELSEA It's weird that I miss the weight of my knives against the pockets of my trousers. But I don't dare bring them to an interview, unless I want to be arrested. I smooth my hands on the flaps of my suit, not tearing my eyes from the double glass doors before me. I won't delay, and I will answer normally. Like the name is mine. Hell, maybe if I say it long enough, it will actually become my name. "May I ask what you are doing here?" a strange voice yanks me out of my head. "Oh, I'm here for the job interview," I say, making my voice small and timid, like the image of an actual "Chelsea" I have in my head. I don't know this Chelsea in particular—the one whose identity I stole. But I knew others in high school and college, and most of them were straight-up blonde, soft babies. So stereotyping much? Definitely. The lady nods and walks back down the stairs, most likely back to her work. I puff a warm breath into my hands and sit straight. I can't be caught like that ag

ZARAH He has been following me since I rounded the block— and I just entered the back alley of my apartment. Honestly, I'm a bit tired of men stalking me like I'm some prey to play with before they attack. Well, I guess we'll soon know who the prey really is here. Leaning on the back door of the apartment building I've been staying at for almost a year now, I cough loudly into the dark, feigning weakness. The man that has been following me stops. I sense him more than I see him, and I cough louder, dropping to the floor this time. Slowly but surely, the footsteps become louder, closer, and my breath stills. Waiting. He reaches my side and his hand stretches to touch me. Too bad. I extend my leg, kicking his, and he loses his footing. In a blink, I'm on my feet, and I reach out to grab him, but he rolls out of my reach and to the other side of the alley. He glances around, and I follow his gaze. There's a bin blocking half the path on one side, and the road is clea