31. Gabriel
31
Gabriel
T he waiting is hell. Almost ten hours of pacing, gripping the edge of my seat, staring at the damn clock like I can force time to move faster. Ten hours of replaying the way my Little Killers eyes looked when they said I couldn’t come with her. We both knew that would happen, but we didn’t want to believe it. The way her panic set in set my insides on fire. Another moment that made me feel helpless.
But she’s alive. That should be enough.
Except it’s not.
She’s more than just a survivor—she’s a witness. And there are things I need to ask her, things she might have seen while Marklov had her. Such as Esmé. Things that could help me burn the rest of his empire to the ground.
But none of that matters right now. Not until she wakes up.
The room is quiet except for the soft beep-beep of the machines monitoring her vitals. She looks small in the hospital bed, too still, too pale. It doesn’t suit her—this kind of fragility. Inés is fire, sharp edges wrapped in a reckless grin. Seeing her like this? It makes something dark and violent twist inside me. We both are like birds learning to fly together. Our guards are up because it takes time to know someone, and I wish that we could have met under better circumstances.
The door creaks open, and a nurse steps in, checking her IV. “She should wake up soon,” she says with a small smile before slipping back out.
Soon. It’s always the same shit.
I rake a hand down my face and sink back into the chair beside her bed. My leg bounces restlessly. I should be thinking about everything riding on what she knows. But instead, all I can think about is the way she looked at me before they wheeled her away. How, for the first time, she let me see something real—fear, trust, something she probably didn’t even mean to show me.
And then, finally, she stirs.
A small twitch of her fingers. A slow, uneven breath. Then, with a soft groan, her eyes flutter open.
I’m on my feet, but I don’t move in too fast; I don’t want her to panic.
I slowly reach down and stroke her hand to let her know I’m here.
“Hey, Little Killer, I’m still here.”
A little smirk plays on her face. I think she is still high off of the anesthesia.
“Hey, handsome, how do I look?”
I panic for a moment, my palms begin to sweat and I can’t help but crack a smile back.
I let out a quiet chuckle, shaking my head. “Like hell, Little Killer.”
Her smirk widens, slow and lazy. “Damn. And here I was hoping for drop-dead gorgeous.”
She’s definitely still high. Her voice is sluggish, words slurring slightly, but the teasing glint in her eyes is real. It’s a small thing, but it settles something in my chest—eases the tightness that’s been gripping me since they took her into surgery.
“You’re a mess,” I murmur, still stroking my thumb over the back of her hand. I don’t even realize that I’m still doing it until she looks down, her gaze flicking to where we’re touching. I almost pull away, but she doesn’t move, doesn’t tense. Instead, she just stares at my hand like she’s trying to decide if she likes it there.
Something shifts in her expression then, something hazy and unreadable. But before I can figure out what it is, her gaze flickers away, and she sighs, turning her head slightly on the pillow.
“How long?” she asks, voice rough.
“Almost ten hours.”
She blinks, surprised, then exhales. “Shit. No wonder I feel like I got hit by a truck.”
I could tell her how pale she was when they brought her out, how her body looked too small against the white sheets, how the sight of her unconscious, hooked up to all these machines, made something ugly and helpless burn inside me. But I don’t.
Instead, I squeeze her hand—just slightly. “You scared the hell out of me, Little Killer.”
She goes quiet at that. Her smirk fades. For a moment, she watches me, her dark eyes heavy-lidded but sharp. Then, just as fast, the wall comes back up.
“I’m fine,” she mutters, shifting slightly, but the movement makes her wince.
I sigh. Of course, she’s going to pretend everything’s fine. When will she learn that I am the one for her? I can see right through her. I can read her like a damn book.
“Yeah,” I say, leaning back. “Sure you are.”
She ignores that, her gaze flickering to the door as if suddenly aware of where she is. She swallows hard, and I don’t miss the way her fingers twitch—subtle, restless.
“Are you hungry?” I ask not only for her but for myself, too. My gut is screaming for some food.
“No, not really in the mood to eat right now.”
“Come on, you gotta eat something. I can get you soup or whatever you want, just tell me.”
She sits there as stubborn as ever.
“Fine, have it your way. I’ll be back. I’m getting us some damn food.” I walk out, leaving no room for an argument.
Tacos. Everyone loves tacos.