Chapter 16 - Gabriel
She's barely been gone an hour when I make the call.
"Eleanor." My voice is steady, betraying nothing of the chaos beneath. "I need you to contact Ms. Rivers. There's an urgent issue with the gala arrangements that requires her presence at the estate tonight."
A pause. Eleanor is too professional to question me, but I can hear the curiosity in her silence.
"What time shall I tell her to arrive, sir?"
"Eight o'clock. And Eleanor—I won't need staff this evening. Send everyone home by seven."
"Understood, sir."
I end the call and stand at my office window, watching the city sprawl below. The sun is beginning its descent, painting the sky in shades of blood and gold.
She'll know it's a pretext. The gala is a month away; there's nothing that requires urgent consultation on a Tuesday evening. She'll know exactly why I'm summoning her.
And she'll come anyway.
The certainty of it burns through me like whiskey—warm and intoxicating. She'll come because she can't stay away any more than I can. She'll come because whatever is building between us has become a force neither of us can control.
I leave the office early, canceling my remaining meetings with a brusqueness that makes my assistant's eyes widen. Let them wonder. Let them whisper. I don't care about any of it—not the business, not the Brotherhood, not the carefully constructed empire I've spent my life building.
I only care about her.
The estate is quiet when I arrive. I move through the familiar rooms, seeing them through her eyes—the serpent motifs, the shadowed corridors, the ballroom where I touched her face and felt her tremble.
Every space holds a memory of her now, a ghost of her presence that haunts me even when she's not here.
I shower and change, selecting my clothes with more care than usual. Dark trousers, a black shirt left open at the collar. I want to look like what I am—not the polished businessman, not the charming philanthropist, but the predator beneath.
By seven, the staff has gone. The house settles into silence around me, empty and waiting.
By eight, I'm standing in the entrance hall, watching the door.
Headlights sweep across the windows. A car door opens and closes. Footsteps on the gravel drive, hesitant but approaching.
She's here.
I open the door before she can knock.
She's changed since this afternoon—different clothes, hair still damp from a shower. She's wearing a simple dress, dark blue, that skims her body in ways that make my mouth water. Her face is pale, her eyes wary.
"Mr. Ambrose." Her voice is cool, professional. A last desperate attempt at distance. "Your assistant said there was an urgent matter—"
"Gabriel."
"What?"
"I told you to call me Gabriel." I step aside, gesturing for her to enter. "And we both know there's no urgent matter. Not about the gala, anyway."
She hesitates on the threshold, and I see the war playing out across her features. The part of her that wants to run, fighting against the part that made her come here in the first place.
"Why am I here?" she asks quietly.
"Because I asked you to be. Because you wanted to come." I hold her gaze. "Because we're done pretending."
Something shifts in her expression—fear giving way to something fiercer. She steps inside, and I close the door behind her.
The sound of the lock engaging is very loud in the silence.
"This is insane," she says. "You know that, right? This whole situation—you, me, whatever this is—it's insane."
"Probably."
"You're a murderer."
"Yes."
"You've been stalking me for weeks. You destroyed my business. You manipulated me into this contract." Her voice rises with each accusation, but she doesn't move away. If anything, she's closer than before. "I should hate you. I do hate you."
"I know."
"So why—" Her voice breaks. "Why can't I stop thinking about you?"
The admission hangs between us, raw and trembling. I close the distance between us, stopping just short of touching her.
"Because you see me," I say. "The real me. Not the mask, not the performance—the monster underneath. And something in you recognizes it."
"That's not—"
"It is." I reach out and brush a strand of damp hair from her face. She shudders but doesn't pull away. "You drew it, Poppy. Before we ever met. The serpent and the flower, intertwined. You knew what I was before you had a name for it."
"That doesn't mean I want—"
"Don't." The word comes out harder than I intended. "Don't lie to me. Not now. Not after everything."
Her eyes are bright with unshed tears—of fury or desire or both, I can't tell. Her chest heaves with rapid breaths. She's so close I can feel the heat of her body, smell the clean scent of her skin.
"I hate you," she whispers.
"I know."
"This is wrong."
"Nothing about us was ever going to be right."
I kiss her.
The contact is electric, a spark that ignites the tension that's been building for weeks. She makes a sound against my mouth—protest or surrender, I can't tell—and then her hands are fisting in my shirt, pulling me closer instead of pushing me away.
She tastes like wine and desperation. I drink her in, one hand tangling in her hair, the other sliding down her spine to press her body against mine. She's trembling—or maybe I am. It's impossible to tell where she ends and I begin.
"Gabriel." My name on her lips is the most beautiful sound I've ever heard. "Gabriel—"
I swallow whatever she was going to say with another kiss, deeper this time, more demanding. I'm done with words. Done with waiting. I've been patient for weeks, and my patience has finally run out.
I walk her backward, guiding her through the entrance hall, down the corridor, toward the stairs. She stumbles once, and I catch her, lifting her against me. Her legs wrap around my waist instinctively, her dress riding up to expose the smooth skin of her thighs.
The feel of her wrapped around me nearly undoes me. I press her against the wall at the base of the stairs, grinding against her, letting her feel exactly what she does to me. She gasps, her head falling back, and I take advantage of her exposed throat—kissing, biting, marking her as mine.
"Upstairs," I growl against her skin. "Now."
I carry her up the stairs, her legs still locked around me, her fingers digging into my shoulders. She's kissing my neck, my jaw, anywhere she can reach, and each touch of her lips sends fire racing through my veins.
My bedroom is at the end of the hall. I kick the door open and carry her inside, not bothering with lights. The moon is bright enough, streaming through the tall windows, painting everything in silver and shadow.
I set her down beside the bed and step back to look at her. Her dress is askew, her hair wild, her lips swollen from my kisses. She's breathing hard, her chest rising and falling, and her eyes—
Her eyes are dark with want. The fear is still there, underneath, but the desire has overtaken it. She's looking at me like she wants to devour me whole.
Good.
"Take off your dress."
She doesn't hesitate. Her hands move to the zipper at her side, and then the blue fabric is sliding down her body, pooling at her feet. Underneath, she's wearing simple black underwear—nothing designed to seduce, and yet the sight of her nearly brings me to my knees.
She's perfect. Small breasts, narrow waist, the curve of her hips leading down to long, slim legs. Pale skin glowing in the moonlight. A body I've been dreaming about for weeks, finally here, finally mine.
"Your turn," she says, and there's a challenge in her voice that makes something dark and hungry stir in my chest.
I unbutton my shirt slowly, watching her watch me. Her eyes trace the planes of my chest, the ridges of my stomach, the dark trail of hair leading down below my waistband. When I reach for my belt, I see her swallow hard.
I slide the belt free from its loops, letting the leather whisper through my fingers. Her eyes follow the movement, and I see something flicker in her expression—curiosity, nervousness, desire.
"Turn around," I tell her.
She hesitates, just for a moment. Then she turns, presenting me with the elegant curve of her spine, the soft swell of her ass barely covered by black lace.
I step close behind her, close enough that she can feel my breath on her neck. I loop the belt around her wrists—not tight enough to hurt, just enough to restrain.
I can feel her trembling, and it's not from fear.
I pull the belt snug, binding her wrists behind her back. She tests the restraint instinctively, a small tug that goes nowhere. The sight of her—bound, vulnerable, waiting—makes my cock throb painfully against my trousers.
"On the bed," I command. "Face down."
She moves awkwardly, her balance compromised by her bound hands. I help her onto the mattress, positioning her with her face pressed into the pillows, her ass raised in the air. I hook my fingers in her underwear and drag them down her legs, baring her completely.
She's glistening. Even in the dim light, I can see the moisture coating her inner thighs, the evidence of how much she wants this despite everything she's said.
"Look at you." I trail my fingers along the curve of her ass, down between her thighs, through the slick heat of her arousal. "So wet. So ready. All for the monster you claim to hate."
"Gabriel—"
I bring my hand down on her ass with a sharp crack.
She cries out—in surprise more than pain, though a pink mark is already blooming on her pale skin. I rub the spot gently, soothing the sting, then strike again. Harder this time.
"You've been fighting this for weeks," I tell her, punctuating each word with another slap. "Fighting me. Fighting yourself. Are you tired of fighting yet?"
"Yes." The word comes out as a moan. "Yes, I'm tired—"
Another strike, and she's pressing back against my hand, seeking more. The sight of her—bound and spanked and desperate—is almost more than I can bear.
I shed my trousers and position myself behind her, running the head of my cock through her folds. She whimpers, trying to push back, to take me inside, but I hold her hips still.
"What do you want?" I demand.
"You. I want you."
"Say it properly."
"Please." She's trembling, her voice ragged with need. "Please fuck me, Gabriel. I need—I need—"
I thrust into her in one hard stroke.
She screams into the pillow, her bound hands flexing uselessly behind her back. Her cunt grips me like a vice, so tight and hot and perfect that I have to pause, gritting my teeth against the urge to come immediately.
"Fuck." The word tears out of me. "You feel incredible."
I pull out slowly, savoring the drag of her flesh against mine, then slam back in hard enough to make her scream again. Again and again, each thrust deeper than the last, each one driving us both closer to the edge.
She's completely at my mercy—bound, face down, unable to do anything but take what I give her. The power of it is intoxicating. But more intoxicating still is the way she's responding, pushing back to meet my thrusts, moaning my name like a prayer.
I reach forward and grab a fistful of her hair, pulling her head back. The new angle lets me drive even deeper, hitting a spot that makes her whole body convulse.
"You're mine," I growl in her ear. "Say it."
"I'm yours." The words spill out between gasps. "I'm yours, Gabriel, I'm—"
"Mine to touch. Mine to fuck. Mine to do whatever I want with."
"Yes. Yes. Anything—"
I release her hair and reach around to find her clit, rubbing in tight circles while I continue to pound into her. She's close—I can feel it in the way her walls flutter around me, hear it in the desperate pitch of her moans.
"Come," I command. "Come on my cock like a good girl."
She shatters.
Her orgasm hits her like a wave, her whole body seizing, her cunt clenching so tight around me that I can barely move. She screams my name, thrashing against her restraints, lost in a pleasure so intense it looks almost like pain.
The sight and feel of her coming undone pushes me over the edge.
I bury myself as deep as I can go and let go, pulse after pulse of hot seed flooding her womb.
The pleasure is blinding, obliterating—a white-hot oblivion that wipes away everything except this moment, this woman, this impossible connection.
When it's over, I collapse beside her, breathing hard. I reach over and unbuckle the belt, freeing her wrists, rubbing the faint red marks the leather has left behind. She rolls onto her back, staring at the ceiling, her chest heaving.
"Are you okay?" I ask, and I'm surprised to find that I mean it. That her answer matters.
"I don't know." She laughs, a slightly hysterical sound. "I don't know what I am."
I pull her against me, fitting her body to mine. She tenses for a moment, then melts into my embrace, her head resting on my chest.
"Stay," I murmur against her hair.
"I shouldn't—"
"Stay."
She doesn't argue again.
I hold her in the darkness, feeling her heartbeat slow, feeling her body grow heavy with approaching sleep. The marks on her wrists, the flush on her skin, the scent of sex hanging in the air—all of it evidence of what we've done. What we've become.
She's mine now. Truly mine, in a way that contracts and coercion could never achieve.
And I'm hers, in a way I never expected and don't fully understand.
Everything has changed.
I don't know what happens next.
But for the first time in my life, I'm looking forward to finding out.