Chapter 10 - Gabriel
Twenty minutes.
That’s how long it takes to slide from the gates of my estate to the gutters of Mulberry.
Heaven to hell in under half an hour, though honestly, I’ve always preferred the company down here. The Bentley hums beneath us, but the air inside the car is thick enough to choke on.
Blair hasn’t said a fucking word since I told her we were going to church.
She’s staring out the window, watching the mansions fade into strip malls and the manicured lawns turn into cracked pavement littered with potholes big enough to swim in.
That black silk slip I told her to wear clings to her like a second skin beneath the cream coat I bought her. She looks good enough to ruin entire empires.
She looks like a queen.
Streetlights slice across her profile, illuminating the tension in her jaw.
She’s not crying. Any other woman would be sobbing her eyes out after what happened on that ladder.
She’d be demanding to go home, threatening to call the cops, or falling apart because I fucked her while humiliating the boy she thought she loved.
But Blair isn't weak and she’s not just any other woman.
I can see the gears turning behind those dark blue eyes. She’s replaying the conversation with Ryder, what I did to her on that ladder, dissecting the cruelty of it.
And she’s realizing she liked the taste.
"What are we doing here, Gabriel?" she asks, her voice tight. It’s cute that she’s nervous.
"You’ll see," I answer, cranking the wheel toward the industrial district. "We’re almost to Dunn Street."
She looks out at the darkened warehouses, the chain-link fences topped with razor wire. "This doesn't look like a church."
"It is for men like me."
I pull the car up to a parking lot behind a nondescript steel door at the back of a brick building. It used to be a textile factory before the jobs dried up and the drugs moved in. There’s no signage. No valet. Just a massive man standing under a single, buzzing yellow bulb.
I kill the engine.
"Leave your phone," I order. "They don’t allow them inside.”
Blair hesitates, her hand hovering over her purse. "Is this safe?"
My seatbelt clicks open. I turn to face her, the leather creaking beneath me. "No. It’s not safe. It’s the most dangerous room you’ll ever walk into."
Reaching across the console, I trail a finger down the side of her neck, feeling her pulse jump against my skin. "But you’re with me. And as long as you’re with me, you’re untouchable."
She searches my face, looking for the lie. She won't find one.
She leaves the phone.
The driver's side door opens, and the air here smells different than it does on the mountain. Diesel fumes mix with wet cardboard and the metallic tang of ozone.
Blair steps out, wrapping her coat tighter around herself. Her hand slips into the crook of my elbow without me having to tell her to do it. She knows the rules of this world instinctively: stay close to the biggest monster in the room.
The bouncer nods as we approach. He doesn't ask for ID. He knows better. The heavy steel door swings open, and the wall of sound hits us.
It’s a deafening roar. A low, guttural vibration of hundreds of men and women shouting, swearing, and betting.
We step inside.
The warehouse is cavernous, the space dominated by a raised ring in the center bathed in harsh white floodlights and surrounded by chain link fencing. Shadows swallow the rest of the room, thick with smoke and the smell of cheap beer, expensive cologne, and fresh blood.
Blair stiffens against my side.
She tries to pull back, but I’m not letting her go. I slide my hand to the small of her back, fingers splaying wide to press her into me.
"Breathe," I murmur against her ear. "It’s just noise."
We move through the crowd. The sea of bodies parts. These men—criminals, hustlers, adrenaline junkies—know who walks among them. They know that while they might run the streets, the pavement they stand on belongs to men like me.
Romeo Hudson stands near the ringside.
The man who runs the Savage Society’s interests in the underground leans against a support pillar, looking bored as he swipes his messy curls off his forehead.
He sees us. His eyes flick to Blair, then back to me. A slow, knowing smile spreads across his face.
"Hollis," he greets, his voice smooth, carrying over the noise as he reaches out a tattooed hand to shake mine. "Didn't think we’d see you tonight."
"Guess I’m full of surprises," I say, stopping in front of him.
Romeo glances at Blair. He doesn't leer. He assesses. He looks at her like she’s a weapon I brought to the table and he’s wondering what her purpose is.
"And who’s this?" Romeo asks.
"Blair," I say. "She’s with me."
The distinction is important. With me means she’s off-limits. With me means look, don't touch unless you want to lose a hand, don't even think about speaking to her unless I give permission.
Romeo nods. "Ms. Blair. Welcome to the slaughterhouse."
"Who's fighting?" I ask, turning my attention to the ring where a crew mops up blood from the previous match.
"Ashwell," Romeo says, gesturing to the corner. "He’s in a mood. I’d bet heavy if I were you."
Tristen Ashwell paces in the corner. He looks like a caged animal. That look in his eye—the one that says he doesn’t give a fuck about winning; he’s here to hurt something—is familiar.
I see it in the mirror every morning.
"Ten grand," I tell Romeo.
"Done."
I guide Blair to the VIP section—a roped-off area with leather couches offering an unobstructed view of the violence. She settles next to me, her knees pressed together, her coat still buttoned to her chin.
"What is this place?" she whispers, her eyes locked on the bloodstain on the concrete.
"This is where the civilized world ends," I tell her, resting my arm on the back of the couch behind her head and playing with the ends of her hair. "Up in the Hills, we pretend. We wear suits, we use lawyers, we destroy lives with signatures and mergers. Down here... down here, it’s primal."
"Primal?" She looks at me, incredulous.
"Violence is the only universal language. It’s the only thing that everyone understands."
A bell rings.
The crowd roars.
Tristen steps into the light. His opponent is a massive wall of muscle, covered in tattoos, looking like he chews rocks for fun.
Blair flinches as the first punch lands. A sickening thwack of meat on meat.
She turns her face into my shoulder.
"Don't look away," I command, my voice low.
She freezes.
"Look at it, Blair," I say, gripping her chin and turning her face back toward the ring. "You wanted revenge? You wanted to hurt Ryder? This is what hurt looks like. Watch."
She trembles, but her eyes open.
Tristen dismantles the other man. It’s not a fight; it’s an execution. He moves with a brutality that’s terrifying to witness. He breaks the man’s nose and blood sprays across the cement, bright red under the lights.
I don't give a shit about the fight. I've seen a thousand of them. She’s the only thing worth watching.
Her pupils dilate, swallowing the blue until her eyes are black pools. Her breath hitches, matching the rhythm of the violence.
I move my hand.
Under the cover of her coat, my fingers slide up her thigh. She jumps, her eyes snapping to mine, but I don't stop. I find the hem of the silk slip and push past it.
"Gabriel," she hisses, glancing around at the screaming crowd. "We're in public."
"No one’s looking at us," I whisper, brushing the bare skin of her inner thigh. "They're watching the blood. But I'm watching you."
Tristen lands a vicious hook. The crowd screams.
I slide my hand higher. She’s not wearing panties. I took them earlier.
"Is this from the cum I left inside of you? Or does violence turn you on?" I murmur, feeling the slick heat of her.
"No," she denies, but her hips buck against my hand.
"Liar." I push a finger inside her.
She gasps, the sound lost in the roar of the fight. Her nails dig into my thigh through my pants.
"You like this," I accuse, matching the rhythm of my finger to the violence in the ring. "You like seeing men bleed. You like knowing you're safe right here in the middle of it."
"I don't," she whimpers, but she spreads her legs wider.
"You do. You're twisted, baby. Just like me."
The other man goes down, spitting teeth. Tristen doesn't stop. He lands one final, brutal kick to the ribs that shakes the floor.
Blair clamps down on my finger, her body shuddering as she comes.
The bell rings. The fight is over.
I pull my hand back. Her juices coat my skin. I bring my fingers to my nose, inhaling the scent of her arousal mixed with the scent of blood in the room.
Intoxicating.
Blair’s cheeks tint even more when I suck my fingers clean.
Romeo walks over with a smirk on his face, handing me a thick stack of cash. "Tris says you’re welcome."
The money lands in my palm. I don't count it, but instead I toss it onto the table in front of us.
"Keep it," I tell Romeo. "Buy Tristen a drink on me as a thanks for the show."
Romeo raises an eyebrow but pockets the cash. "You staying for the main event? Wraith’s fighting."
"No," I say, standing up and pulling Blair with me. "I’ve seen enough."
I need to get her out of here. The whole point of coming here was to see how Blair would handle the darker parts of me and now I have my answer.
The air in the warehouse is too thick, too charged. The scent of blood and sweat mixes with the scent of her arousal, and if we don't leave in the next five seconds, I’m going to fuck her on this leather couch in front of a crowd of people who are more animal than man right now.
And while I don't mind an audience, I’m not sharing her. Not even visually.
It doesn’t take long to get out.
The transition to the cold night air is jarring. It hits our heated skin, sharp and biting, snapping reality back into focus.
Blair is shaking.
My grip on her arm tightens as we walk to the car. I open the back door instead of the front.
"Get in."
She doesn't argue. She just climbs into the spacious backseat of the Bentley, and I groan when her skirt hikes up her thighs before I follow her inside.
The door slams, locking us in the dark, quiet cocoon of leather and luxury.
Silence fills the space between us, stretching and crackling and building second by second, breath by breath.
She sits inches from me, her chest heaving. The adrenaline crashes through her system, looking for an outlet.
"Come here," I order.
She scrambles across the seat and doesn't hesitate. She crawls into my lap, straddling me, her hands tangling in my hair before she’s even settled.
She kisses me.
It’s not a soft kiss. It’s violent. Teeth and tongue and desperation. She tastes like the future, like the sweetest sin.
A groan rips from my throat as my hands slide under her dress and grip her hips, bruising her skin. I want to leave marks. I want her to look at her body tomorrow and remember exactly who owns it.
"You liked it," I accuse against her bruised mouth. "Watching him bleed."
"I hated it," she gasps, grinding down on my lap. She’s so wet, she’s drenched my pants.
"You loved the power," I correct, ripping open her coat. "You loved seeing what men are capable of when the rules are stripped away."
My fingers are rough as I shove her dress up to her waist. I don't bother with finesse.
"Gabriel," she chokes out and I snap.
A quick adjustment frees my cock. I’m hard as granite, aching to bury myself in her. The violence in the ring was just foreplay. This is the main event.
Her hips rise as I impale her.
She moans, the sound swallowed by my mouth as I kiss her again.
I thrust deep, hard and fast. There is no gentleness here. This is possession. This is reclaiming her from the world, from her past, from the man who didn't know what to do with a woman like her.
"Did you think about Ryder when that man’s nose broke?" I demand.
"No," she sobs.
"Good." My teeth sink into her neck, right over her pulse point. "Did you think about me?"
"Yes."
"Did you think about what I could do to him?"
She freezes for a second, her eyes flying open.
"Tell me," I snarl, not stopping the rhythm. "Tell me you want me to be your monster."
"I want it," she whispers, then louder. "I want you to hurt him. I want you to burn it all down."
That breaks me.
The admission that she’s just as twisted as I am, that she craves the darkness as much as the light, shatters my control.
The rhythm becomes brutal, the car rocking on its suspension. My hands bruise her hips, forcing her to take every inch of me.
"You're mine," I chant, a litany of ownership. "My darkness. My light. My ruin."
She shatters around me, her internal muscles clamping down on my cock, milking me dry.
Release hits me, pouring myself into her for the second time tonight. It’s an exorcism. It drains the violence out and replaces it with something heavier.
Something permanent.
My weight settles against her, face buried in the curve of her neck, breathing in the scent of sweat and sweetness and Blair.
We stay like that for a long time.
The windows fog up. The silence of the industrial park surrounds us.
Slowly, the world creeps back in.
Pulling back, I adjust her dress, smoothing her hair. She looks wrecked. Her lips are swollen, her eyes heavy.
"You should be afraid of me," I tell her, tracing the line of her jaw. "I brought you here to scare you away. To show you the ugly truth."
She looks at me. Really looks at me.
She doesn't pull away. She leans her cheek into my hand.
"Maybe I like being afraid," she whispers.
The realization hits hard.
I haven't just caught a bird.
I’ve caught a hawk.
And God help anyone who tries to take her from me now.