Chapter 29
Belle
I walked toward the hospital bed with trembling hands and a throat full of needles.
The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. Antiseptic stung my nostrils. Machines beeped in a steady rhythm—heartbeat, oxygen, life measured in mechanical intervals.
I expected guilt. Expected panic. Expected the crushing weight of fear I'd carried since the phone call.
Instead, I felt—
Empty.
Hollowed out.
Wrong.
My father lay pale against the sheets, thinner than I remembered. His skin had a translucent quality, stretched too tight over bones that seemed sharper than before. The hospital gown dwarfed him. Made him look small. Fragile. Mortal in ways I wasn't ready to acknowledge.
He opened his eyes.
"Belle?"
My knees nearly buckled.
I gripped the doorframe hard enough my knuckles went white. Forced my legs to carry me forward. The linoleum squeaked under my shoes. Each step felt heavier than the last.
I'd only been away from Gideon for an hour.
And I missed him.
The realization hit like a physical blow. Sharp. Unexpected. Unwanted.
I missed his scent—cedar and something darker that clung to expensive fabric. Missed his warmth—the solid weight of him behind me in bed, arm heavy across my waist, breath steady against my neck. Missed the way he said Go to him with a voice breaking in all the places he never let anyone see.
My chest throbbed with a strange ache. Not grief. Something worse.
Longing.
For the man who'd broken bones for me. Who'd destroyed his own hand protecting me from wolves I'd been too proud to name. Who'd held me through the night like I was something precious instead of something owned. Who'd let me go when letting go was killing him.
I'd heard it in his voice. Seen it in the way he couldn't look at me. Felt it in the tremor beneath his control.
Don't come back.
The words echoed.
My father reached a trembling hand toward me. Monitors beeped faster. The IV tube caught the light.
I took his hand. Squeezed gently. Tried to smile. Failed. Because part of me—too large a part—wasn't here at all.
Part of me was still in that house. In that bed. In Gideon's arms. Where I suddenly, terrifyingly, desperately wanted to be.
I sank into the chair beside him.
Plastic squeaked. My bones felt too heavy. The room smelled like death wearing a sterile mask.
"I didn't want you to worry." His voice was weak. Thin. Threaded with something that might have been regret if I could afford to believe it.
I flinched.
"That's exactly the problem." The words scraped out raw. "You never let me worry. You hid everything until it was already too late."
His eyes flickered. Confusion. Defense. The same pattern we'd danced for years.
But I was past stopping.
"You never took care of me."
His face tightened. Hurt flashing across features too pale, too drawn.
"You took care of whatever you wanted in the moment. Your ideas. Your whims. Your risks. Your schemes." My voice dropped. "And I was collateral damage every time."
His breath stuttered. The monitor beeped faster.
I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand. Tears burned tracks down my cheeks.
"I love you. But I can't keep paying for the choices you made decades ago."
"Belle—"
I shook my head hard. My hair fell forward, hiding my face. Hiding the grief I couldn't contain. "No. Listen to me." More tears spilled. Hot. Angry. Exhausted. "I can't watch you get hurt anymore. I can't be the one fixing everything. I can't keep sacrificing my life to save you."
The words tasted like betrayal. Like freedom. Like both at once.
His voice cracked, "The bills, Belle… how—?"
I closed my eyes. Breathed deep. Trembling. Everything inside me fracturing. "They're taken care of."
Silence.
Then confusion—immediate, disoriented.
"By who?"
I opened my eyes. Looked at him through the blur. Soft. Shattered. And finally honest. "By the only person who's been taking care of me at all."
The admission hung between us.
My father stared. Processing. Not understanding.
But I did.
I understood with a clarity that felt like falling.
Gideon had done more for me in three months than anyone had in years. Fed me when I refused. Held me when I broke. Protected me when wolves circled. Let me go when staying meant keeping me in danger. Destroyed his hand—his career, his everything—without hesitation.
For me.
My chest ached. Not with gratitude. With longing. With a truth I'd been too stubborn to name.
I loved him.
Not the contract. Not the safety. Not even the pleasure that left me trembling.
Him.
The man who'd held me through nightmares. Who'd bathed me with hands more gentle than I deserved. Who'd asked about my mother's favorite books and listened like the answer mattered. Who'd looked at me this morning and said don't come back because keeping me safe mattered more than keeping me his.
I stood abruptly.
The chair scraped.
"I have to go."
My father reached for me, weak fingers grasping.
"Belle—"
"I'll be back." My voice broke. "I promise. But right now—"
I couldn't finish. Because right now, I needed to find the man I'd left bleeding in an empty house. Before he convinced himself I was better off without him.
I squeezed his hand once more. Not goodbye. Not forgiveness either. Just acknowledgment.
"I'll come back tomorrow. But I'm done being your shield. You have to face what you've done. I can't carry it anymore."
His mouth opened. Closed. Worked soundlessly for breath or protest—I didn't wait to find out which.
I pulled my hand free. Gentle. Final.
For the first time in my life, I walked away while he was still reaching for me.
The door whispered shut behind me. The hallway stretched ahead—too bright, too clean, too empty. My shoes squeaked against linoleum. Nurses moved past without seeing me. A doctor checked a chart. Someone's family laughed softly in a waiting room.
Life continued.
Mine would too.
My shoulders shook. Not with sobs. With the strange, unsettling relief of finally setting something down.
I pressed a hand to my mouth. Kept walking. Focused on the exit sign glowing green at the end of the corridor.
One foot.
Then the other.
My chest ached, but not with the crushing weight I'd carried for years.
This was different.
Cleaner.
Sharper.
The ache of a wound finally allowed to close.
I could love him without losing myself.
The realization settled into my bones like truth I'd been too afraid to claim.
I didn't have to choose between caring for my father and caring for my own survival. Didn't have to light myself on fire to keep him warm. Didn't have to drown trying to save someone who refused to swim.
I could grieve his choices without inheriting them. Could mourn the father I'd needed without sacrificing the woman I was becoming.
The automatic doors slid open. Cold air hit my face. I gulped it down—sharp, bracing, alive.
My phone buzzed in my pocket.
I didn't check it.
Because there was only one person I wanted to hear from.
And he'd told me not to come back.
But Gideon didn't know yet—I wasn't the same woman who'd left his house this morning. That woman would have obeyed. Would have stayed away out of fear or guilt or the belief she didn't deserve to claim what she wanted.
This woman?
This woman knew exactly where she needed to be.
I unlocked my car with shaking hands. Slid into the driver's seat. I sat gripping the steering wheel. Breathing hard through my teeth. Chest rising and falling in uneven rhythm. Eyes stinging. Hands shaking.
The parking garage stretched empty around me—concrete pillars, fluorescent buzz, the smell of oil and exhaust. Cold seeped through the windows. My breath fogged the glass.
For years, I'd fought for scraps of my father's attention. His approval. His care. Begging him to see me. To choose me. To put me first just once.
He never did.
Gideon?
Gideon paid my bills without asking for gratitude.
Kept my shop running when I couldn't afford the lights.
Fed me when I refused to eat. Washed me when shame tried to drown me.
Held me through nightmares I didn't deserve comfort for.
Risked everything—his hand, his career, his entire future—the moment danger touched me.
Then let me walk away because keeping me safe mattered more than keeping me his.
My hand lifted to my neck. Found the fading bruise beneath my jaw. The one I'd covered. Hidden. Been ashamed of.
His mark.
A sob tore from my throat. Raw. Ugly. Stripped of every defense I'd built.
Gideon didn't just want me. He chose me. Over hockey. Over pride. Over the violence that lived in his bones and the control that defined him.
He'd tried pushing me away to protect me. And every cell in my body screamed that staying gone was wrong. Wrong in a way I couldn't ignore. Wrong like missing a limb. Wrong like forgetting how to breathe.
"I shouldn't go back."
The words felt hollow. False. A script I'd written for someone else's life.
My fingers tightened on the wheel until my knuckles went white.
"But I want to."
The admission hung in the air—fragile, terrifying, undeniable.
I wanted him. Not the safety. Not the money. Not the contract I'd signed under duress and necessity.
Him.
The man who fell asleep holding me like I mattered. Who asked about books and listened to answers. Who looked at me with hunger and tenderness and a vulnerability he'd never shown anyone.
Who loved me the only way he knew how.
Imperfectly. Fiercely. Completely.
I wiped my face with shaking hands. Mascara smeared my palms. Tears kept falling anyway.
Turned the key.
The engine roared to life.
My heart slammed against my ribs—painful, desperate, alive.
I pulled out of the parking space. Drove toward the exit. The city blurred past.
I wanted to be his choice the way he'd always been mine.
The road blurred past in streaks of light and shadow.
Streetlamps smeared gold across rain-slicked pavement. Buildings rose and fell like breathing. The lake stretched black and endless to my right—ancient, cold, watching.