Chapter 12 - Gabriel
While Blair gets ready, I make a call.
Four inches of paper sit on my desk. I’ve just finished printing everything Blair discovered out and stacking it together.
It’s a heavy, dense brick detailing the complete and total destruction of my son’s life, and looking at it gives me a sick sense of satisfaction.
Pages crackle in the silent office as my thumb catches the corner. It’s all here. The unauthorized transfers from Blair’s accounts. The emails sabotaging her clients. The receipts from hotels where he took women who weren’t her. The gambling debts he thought he was hiding from me.
A manifesto of failure.
His failure as a man, yes. But my failure as his father, too.
"I’ve still got the disinheritance papers," Cohen says on the other end of the line. "We can file them in the morning. Cut him off. Freeze the accounts. It’s a kill shot."
A photo attached to the file catches my eye. Ryder leaving a motel in Mulberry with a blonde who looks like she charges by the hour.
"No," I say, closing the folder.
"No?" Cohen pauses. "I thought you wanted to bury him."
"I do," I agree, leaning back in the leather chair. "But not quickly. If we cut him off now, he plays the victim. He cries to his mother’s friends. He spins a story about how I’m the asshole in this scenario." And I don’t tell Cohen how Blair wants to watch my son’s downfall.
How she wants to help orchestrate it, and how filing a piece of paper with the court isn’t going to cut it.
Rough stubble scrapes against my palm as I run a hand over my jaw.
"He needs to have nothing left to catch him when he falls," I tell Cohen. "His reputation needs to be in tatters. His social standing incinerated. He needs to know, in his bones, that he did this to himself."
"And Thornton?"
"Thornton is circling," I say. "Let him think he sees blood in the water. When he lunges, I’ll take his head off, too."
"You’re playing a dangerous game, Gabe."
"I’m not playing."
“So you say.”
After that, the call ends.
The clock on the wall indicates the sun went down hours ago. Darkness tries to push in, but with Blair here, stringing lights everywhere and bringing happiness inside its walls, this house has never felt warmer.
Standing up, I adjust my cuffs. Violence simmers in my blood, looking for an outlet.
Destroying Ryder on paper isn't enough. Taking something real is the only way to settle the itch under my skin. Putting my hands on the prize he was too stupid to keep will remind me why I’m burning my own heir to the ground.
Blair is standing in the Great Room.
The massive Christmas tree we decorated towers over her. She did what I told her. The dress fits her perfectly, the hem hitting just above her knees, the neckline plunging enough to tease. Dark waves of hair fall down her back.
She’s so goddamn beautiful, it hurts to look at her.
"Ready?" she asks, turning as I approach.
The scent of her—sweetness and trouble—hits me hard. My cock twitches and I don’t try to hide the way I adjust it. Her eyes drop to the motion and her lips part.
"Change of plans," I say, when I notice the slump to her shoulders. There’s been a lot of dark introduced into her world, and while she’s handling it, I can also see the toll it’s taking on her. I’m going to remove the burden of guilt from her in the best way I know how.
Her gaze snaps back up to mine and she tilts her head as she studies me. “Okay… what are we doing?”
"You’ll see." My hand extends toward her. "Come with me."
She doesn't ask where. She doesn't hesitate. Her hand slides into mine, her skin cool and soft against my palm.
I skip the Bentley tonight, wanting something faster. The Aston Martin purrs as we wind down the mountain roads, headlights cutting through the blackness of the pine forest. Speed is a necessity tonight. It’s the only time my brain shuts the fuck up.
Blair sits quietly in the passenger seat, but her gaze feels heavy on my profile. She’s studying me, trying to figure out what the hell I’m doing.
She’s not the only one. I’m trying to figure out what the fuck I’m doing, too.
Confusion ripples across her face when the car pulls up to the curb a few minutes later.
"Gabriel," she says, looking out the window. "This is a church."
St. Augustine of the Cascades looms above us, a gothic beast of stone and stained glass. The oldest building in Emerald Hills stands as a monument to old money and older guilt.
"I know what it is," I say, killing the engine.
"It’s Monday night," she says, checking her phone. "It’s closed."
"Not for me."
Cold air bites at my exposed skin as I step out. Opening her door offers her no escape, not that she’d try to run. No, she wants to be here with me. It doesn’t matter where here is. She’s connected to me as I am her. I can feel it.
She takes my hand, stepping out onto the sidewalk. Her eyes flick to the heavy oak doors, then back at me.
"Are we here to repent?" she asks, a smirk playing on her lips. "Because I feel like we’re adding to the list, not subtracting."
"Repenting isn't my style," I tell her, pulling a heavy iron key from my pocket. "I just sin differently."
The side door unlocks with a groan.
We step inside.
Stale air greets us, smelling of beeswax, frankincense, and centuries of lies. Darkness fills the space, broken only by red votive candles flickering near the altar and moonlight spilling through high stained glass windows.
It’s tomb quiet.
Our footsteps echo on the stone floor as we move down the center aisle.
"I didn't peg you for a religious man," Blair whispers. The atmosphere demands hushed tones.
"I'm not," I say. "I was raised with nothing. No God, no church, no rules except survival. Religion is for people who want forgiveness for their bad behavior. That doesn’t apply to me."
"Then why are we here?"
We stop moving. We turn toward each other and my knuckles graze down her cheek. She leans into the touch, her eyes dark in the shadows.
"Whether you call it sin or not, guilt carries weight," I murmur. "And you’re carrying too much."
Her breath hitches. "I haven't done anything wrong."
"Haven't you?"
My hand grips hers, pulling her toward the back of the nave.
Confessionals built into the wall loom ahead, ornate wooden boxes with heavy velvet curtains. Upright coffins for the guilty.
We stop in front of the center one.
"Get in," I say, nodding toward the penitent’s side.
Blair’s eyes widen. She looks at the booth, then at me.
"Gabriel," she says, a nervous laugh bubbling up. "This is... we can't. It’s sacrilege."
"And?" I say, opening the door to the priest’s side. "Get in the booth, Blair."
A command.
She shivers. Conflict wars in her eyes—the ingrained respect for the sacred fighting the dark, twisted need to obey.
The need wins.
She steps into the booth. The blood-red velvet curtain falls behind her.
The narrow wooden bench groans as I sit.
It’s cramped. Dark. Light filters through the intricate lattice screen separating us. Her silhouette is visible. Her breathing—quick, shallow gasps—fills the silence.
Perfume drifts through the screen, mixing with the smell of old wood.
"Gabriel?" she whispers.
"Confess," I say. My voice is low, rough. It bounces off the walls of the tiny space, surrounding her.
"Confess what?"
"Your sins." I lean close to the screen. "Start with the ones involving me."
Silence stretches.
"I don't know what you want me to say."
"Don't lie to me. Not here." My hand rests on the screen. "Tell me about Ryder."
"I told you everything. He stole from me."
"Not the money," I growl. "That’s the easy part. Tell me the rest. Tell me about the sex."
Fabric rustles as she shifts on the kneeler.
"What about it?"
"Tell me about the nights you lay in his bed," I demand. "Tell me about the times he touched you. Did you close your eyes?"
"Sometimes." Her voice is barely audible.
"Why?"
"Because..." She stops.
"Because why?" I push. "Because he was boring? Because he was weak?"
"Because he wasn't you."
The words hit like a shot of adrenaline straight to the chest. My cock throbs, hard and heavy against the zipper of my pants.
"Say that again."
"I closed my eyes because sometimes I pretended he was you," she confesses.
The words come faster now, like a dam breaking.
"For months. Maybe longer. Seeing you at Sunday dinner, sitting at the head of the table, looking at me like you wanted to eat me alive.
.. and then going home with him. I had to shut my eyes to get through it. "
"Did you touch yourself? When you were alone?" I ask, breathing harder now as all the blood in my body is in a race to see how fast it can get to my dick.
"Yes."
"Thinking of me?"
"Yes."
"Tell me," I command. "Tell me what you imagined I was doing to you."
"I imagined..." She takes a ragged breath. "I imagined your hands. They’re so big. I imagined them around my throat. I imagined you bending me over that dining room table and taking me right in front of him."
Fuck.
Wood groans under my grip. Breaking this screen to get to her feels like a valid option.
"Did you come?" I ask.
"Harder than I ever did with him," she whispers. "I felt guilty. I felt like a whore."
"Not a whore," I tell her. "Just starving. And you knew where the food was."
"I wanted you to ruin me," she sobs out. "I wanted you to save me from him, but I also wanted you to destroy me. Is that a sin?"
"Yes," I say. "Coveting. Lust. Dishonoring the family."
The bench scrapes as I stand.
"Gabriel?"
"Stay on your knees," I order.
The door to my booth flies open with a kick. Two steps later, the curtain on hers rips back.
Blair kneels on the padded rest, hands gripping the ledge, head bowed. She looks up as my frame fills the small space. She’s got wet eyes with mascara streaking down her cheeks. Her lips are pink and parted, wet from her tongue and her tears.