Chapter 26 Gabriel
Gabriel
"Wake up, son."
A firm pat on my cheek dragged me from the fog of sleep. My eyelids fluttered open, wincing against the sterile light that spilled across the room. The sharp scent of antiseptic bit at my nose, and the rhythmic beeping of nearby machines grated on my nerves, each sound clawing at me.
As my vision cleared, my father’s towering frame filled the space, his shadow stretching long across the walls. His face was a mask—emotionless and unreadable.
"Told you I’d come back."
I groaned, shifting against the stiff bed. Every movement sent sharp pangs rippling through my body, but the novelty of pain had lost its edge long ago. I inhaled deeply, steadying myself before meeting his gaze.
"The other families are coming to heel," he began, his voice cold, measured—every word carrying the weight of expectation. "But it isn’t enough. I need you on your feet. They must see our strength. Our unity."
I tilted my head back, letting my eyes drift shut again. "They don’t need me standing to know their place," I muttered, the words heavy with defiance.
"With what I’m going to announce to them, they do."
Before he could continue, I raised my hand to silence him. His hand closed around mine. For a moment, neither of us moved. Then I used his grip to pull myself upright. Pain tore through my shoulder, burning down my arm. I locked it away.
"I’m fine," I said through clenched teeth, forcing myself to stay steady as the room tilted. "Just give me a second."
His jaw tightened, a flicker of tension betraying his otherwise stoic exterior. He wasn’t here just to deliver an update—something else was gnawing at him.
My gaze wandered, landing on Sophia. She was slumped in the corner, legs curled beneath her, fast asleep in a big chair. Her chest rose and fell in slow, steady rhythm, her face soft in sleep. In the chaos of my world, she was the one constant, soft, beautiful thing.
Would she still be the same, now that it was her world too?
"What is it?" I asked, dragging my attention back to him.
Before my father could answer, another voice emerged from the shadows, low and steady.
"Ivan is still alive, he fell for the trap, but escaped,” Damien said, stepping into view. His tone was casual, but the words hit like a hammer.
“There’s not much I can do about that right now." I gestured vaguely at the wires and IVs tethering me to the bed. "But I’ll take care of it."
My father’s scowl deepened. "I need you ready. We’re hosting a gala in a few days, and the families must be reminded of their place. Those who sided with the Sinclairs will have an opportunity to beg for forgiveness."
He patted my good shoulder absently, then left the room.
"You’ve been asleep for two days," Damien said, then followed my father out. Their footsteps receded into the hallway, leaving the quiet beeping of machines and an oppressive silence in their wake.
I exhaled slowly, letting the tension bleed from my body. Then I reached up, peeling the wires and IV from my skin, turning off the machine beeping incessantly.
Sophia sat bolt upright, her eyes wide. “What are you doing?" she asked, crossing the room in quick, graceful strides. "Don’t take those off!"
"I don’t need them," I said simply.
"You should wait for the doctor to tell you that."
I reached for her, pulling her close. Her warmth melting into me as I buried my face against her chest, breathing deeply. "Trust me. I feel great," I murmured.
She pulled back slightly, her eyes searching mine. There was a playfulness there with the concern, quickly strained by something harder.
"Something’s on your mind. What is it?" I asked, testing the strength of my legs as I swung them off the bed. A jolt of pain shot up my spine, but I held firm, steady.
"It’s nothing," she said—too quickly.
"Tell me," I insisted.
She blinked, looked away, then looked back. "Caroline loves Ivan."
I let out a disbelieving laugh. "No."
"She does," Sophia said firmly, her tone leaving no room for doubt.
I shook my head. "No. She’s just—" I gestured vaguely, unable to find the words to write this off. Frustration prickled at me.
She didn’t respond. Her silence was answer enough.
I rubbed a hand over my face, considering the possibility she actually did love him. "Talk to her. Find out everything—what she’s thinking, how she feels. Plant seeds of doubt, if you can. I’ll deal with her myself later."
"But—"
"Go."
She hesitated, her reluctance written plainly across her face, before finally nodding.
I watched her walk away, smiling despite the pain. She wasn’t broken.