Chapter Four #2
How odd for that to be counted as luck.
She looked down at her plate, poked at the chicken as dread and the deflation of any wisp of happiness took up residence in her stomach.
“He’ll never stop looking for me.” She knew this deep in her bones.
The idea of her somehow tricking him, escaping him would not be one he’d ever get over.
Gabriel would and could protect her, she had no doubts.
But would it require her to live like this always?
“No,” Gabriel agreed in that easy way of his.
“But I think he might tell the country you were murdered. He hasn’t yet, but it’s a rumbling.
He’ll keep looking, since he knows you weren’t, and it’ll never sit right with him that you escaped, but if he’s the only one looking… It makes things easier for us.”
He lifted his hand, and for a moment, she thought he’d put it over hers. Instead, he reached for his wine. Took a drink.
A very large drink. What was that about?
She watched him eat, thought about it as he easily led the conversation around to a wide variety of topics. It was not a surprise, exactly, that he was so intelligent, so well-versed in so many things. He was a wealthy, privileged man.
But he spoke to her…like an equal. She hadn’t fully realized how rare that was until this moment. Her brother had a…paternal way of dealing with her, which she’d never minded overmuch. He had been her protector for her whole life, and she had certainly spent a lot of time wishing he was her father.
The staff treated her in much the same way, even the well-meaning ones who were simply scared of her father, not loyal to him in that way. Her life had always been an odd extreme of privilege and punishment.
But the way Gabriel asked questions about what she knew, what she thought, made her realize that even Jordi had treated her a bit like a child who couldn’t possibly have opinions of her own.
The thought depressed her. It spoke to desperation, she supposed, that she’d believed his seduction had been love, simply because he had given her any attention.
Gabriel nudged her plate. “You need to eat, Evelyne.”
“You are the only one who has ever concerned themselves with if I do not eat.”
“I’m sure that isn’t true.”
“I’m sure you’d be wrong,” she muttered, poking the chicken with her fork, then forgoing the food for another sip of wine. She studied him, didn’t bother to hide it through sideways glances or anything else.
“Father used to punish me if I ate too much,” she said conversationally.
She supposed she had to admit that some of her food issues stemmed from trauma right there.
“Or if I did not like something I was supposed to. Or if I made a mess of things. A princess should eat small portions and do it prettily,” she recited.
She looked up, vaguely amused at how silly it all seemed, but the expression on Gabriel’s face was not what she expected. She had not been sure what to expect, but certainly not rage.
She swallowed, surprised that the fury she saw there did not frighten her, did not remind her of being in her father’s office, but instead seemed to hit her bloodstream like alcohol—a burning, freeing, fizzing wave of what could only be termed as desire.
That someone might actually be…angry on her behalf. Not because they were related, but because it had…harmed her. She knew that everything Gabriel did was because Alexandre was his friend, but being angry on her behalf was something…else.
Something about her.
“Your father is a scourge,” Gabriel said darkly, but she saw the way he was fighting back the severity of his reaction. He breathed carefully, unclenched the hand that had balled up into a fist.
He was a fascinating man, so many little pockets of emotion and reaction. So different from her brother, whose stoicism bordered on a total lack of personality.
It made her wonder. She understood that so much of what Gabriel had done was a thank you to Alexandre, but she still existed. She breathed. She was involved.
And he was angry at her father on her behalf.
“What do you think of me, Gabriel?”
He raised an eyebrow, took a sip of his wine before responding. “That is a leading question.”
“Indeed. Answer it anyway.”
His mouth curved, ever so slightly. “You are not a princess here, Evelyne. And I am not your subject to order about.”
“Well, you are wrong on half of that,” she replied, grinning at him in humor. “America and fake identities or not, I am always a princess.”
That curve of his mouth turned into a full-blown smile in return, the rage and anger gone. This had a similar effect though, a beautiful fluttering in her chest, spreading warmth through her body. Like a…blooming.
“Fair enough, principessa. What do I think of you?” He speared a piece of chicken with his fork. “You are impressive, Evelyne. This is delicious, and while you might have had ample time to teach yourself how to cook, not everyone would use their time wisely.”
It surprised her, how easily the compliment was delivered. She hesitated, shifted in her seat, not quite sure what to do with praise. “Well. I have also spent a lot of time staring off into the ocean.”
He shrugged. “Understandable. You have withstood having to leave everything you’ve ever known behind and exist mostly alone.
The surroundings are nice, no doubt, but that doesn’t make the process easy.
But you have spine. Underneath that sparkle and personality.
You have your brother’s strength, or you would not have survived your father. ”
For a moment, she was rendered completely speechless. Compliments were not something she was used to, aside from ones about her looks. Anything complimenting her spine or strength was completely foreign and…wonderful.
He must have sensed something of the enormity of her reaction, because he frowned, then shifted in his seat. Almost as though confident, carefree Gabriel Marti was uncomfortable.
“Eat three more bites,” he ordered, like a parent would to a child. “Then I will help you clean up your mess.”
She thought to argue with him, but eating the somewhat insulting three more bites like she was a child and having him help clean up kept them close.
So she ate a little bit of her chicken while he cleared his plate. This filled her with satisfaction too. He would not clear his plate if the food was horrible, even to assuage her ego. Gabriel was nice to her because of Alexandre, but she did not think he cared all that much about her ego.
He cleared the table with her, then moved to the sink. This was something she had come to the house knowing how to do. One of her punishments as a child for her many infractions at the dinner table had been to wash all the dishes for the palace. By hand.
Some of the women in the kitchens had been kind to her, taught her how to take care of her hands, had tried to carefully help her, but since everyone was afraid of King Enzo they had not done her work for her.
“I’ll wash, you can dry,” she told Gabriel.
“Do you know what this contraption is right here?” he asked, amused, pointing at the dishwasher.
She batted her eyelashes at him. “I thought it was a paper shredder.”
“Funny.”
Since she did know what it was for, and in fact how to use it—she’d even read the manual she’d found in the kitchen drawer to be sure—she handed him a dish towel.
“You are meant to handwash these pans, and the knives. The kind women in the kitchens of the palace taught me this. Then, since I already have to do that, I handwash the rest. It’s just me.
Or me and you, so convenience doesn’t really have much of a place here. It gives me something to do.”
If he had a reaction to that, she couldn’t read it. “Very well.” He unbuttoned the cuffs of his shirt, pushed the sleeves up to the elbow.
Evelyne found her gaze trapped there for a moment. She studied the muscular forearms, wondered how he kept in such good shape. Was he some kind of gym rat? His hands spoke of…some kind of physical work. Though his watch was expensive, he had the slash of a faded scar over the back of his left hand.
Would his hands be rough then? What would it feel like to be touched by hands that had seen work outside typing up missives and handling phone calls in the palace?
She’d only ever been with Jordi, and not often.
It had been…pleasant enough, though she thought most of the enjoyment came from doing something she wasn’t supposed to be doing under her father’s nose.
Perhaps for both of them.
Gabriel, on the other hand, didn’t strike her as a man who concerned himself with what he was allowed. Didn’t her entire escape prove that? Not many would go against King Enzo’s wishes.
But he had. For Alexandre, yes, but because he was a brave man, a strong man, a smart man.
A handsome man who she knew only in relation to her brother. But he was a good man, or Alexandre would not be friends with him—no matter what stories Gabriel had about being saved by Alex. He was a good man, or he would not have risked so much to bring her here.
She did not know very many good men. If not for Alexandre, she would know none, believe in none.
But she believed in Gabriel. She believed that she could feel freedom and hope in his arms. Because if she could convince him to touch her, kiss her, be with her, that would be for her. Not to endure something. Not to save her.
No, it would simply be something to enjoy.
Would he be appalled by her thoughts? Amused? Or was his behavior at dinner, and a few other times over the course of all this, a sign that he might have thoughts along the same lines?
He thought her strong.
She wanted him to show her strength. She wanted him to show her a million things. She wanted to feel alive, and independent and free. She hadn’t yet. As much as this was better than the palace, a life being promised to General Vinyes, it had yet to feel like real, true freedom.
He would feel that way. But how could she make that happen?
There was a moment, brief and exciting, where she handed him a wet pan. He lifted his gaze, and it met hers. He must have realized what was in her gaze—heat, interest, want. And he did not immediately look away or rebuff any of these things.
No, she saw each and every one of those in his own gaze, before he blinked them away.
And made his excuses to leave.
But Evelyne was beginning to formulate a plan. One that involved more than just gazes meeting.