Chapter 17
My stomach rumbles with hunger loud enough to interrupt the languid make-out session we’d fallen into after a third round of sex, and Gabriel’s fingertips pause their trail across my chest.
“Was that you or me?” Gabriel lifts his lips from my throat, amusement crinkling the corners of his eyes.
“Definitely you,” I lie, rolling away from him before my stomach can betray me again. “Rich boys and their appetites.”
Gabriel catches my wrist as I swing my legs over the side of the bed. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“To find food before we starve to death.” I glance back at him, sprawled across my sheets, his hair mussed from sleep and sex. “Not the worst way to go, but I’d prefer to die with a full stomach.”
He releases me with a dramatic sigh, stretching his arms above his head. The sheet slips lower, revealing the trail of dark hair below his navel. “Fine. But I expect breakfast in bed.”
“You might want to lower your expectations.” I pull on a pair of sweatpants from the floor. “My refrigerator isn’t stocked for entertaining.”
With a grumble, Gabriel pulls on his boxers and follows me to the kitchen. “Fine. I remember how empty your fridge was. But there was cereal in the cupboard. We can eat that.”
“Lower,” I tell him.
He frowns. “What, you at least had milk last time.”
I fling open the refrigerator door, revealing a wasteland of condiment bottles, a half-empty carton of milk, and a takeout container so old I can’t remember its contents. “That bad.”
Reaching inside, I grab the milk carton, check the date, and grimace. “Might be closer to cheese by now.”
“Jesus, Saint.” Gabriel moves past me to open the cabinets one by one, revealing the box of stale cereal, a jar of peanut butter, and three bottles of whiskey. “Do you ever actually eat at home?”
“I grab food at the club.” I lean against the counter, watching him continue his fruitless search. “Or I order takeout.”
Gabriel closes the last cabinet with a defeated thump. “Well, unless you want whiskey and peanut butter for breakfast, we need to make a food run.”
The thought of venturing outside my apartment sends a ripple of unease through me, but I refuse to be scared into hiding.
“You shower.” I nudge him toward the bathroom. “I’ll run out and grab us something.”
Gabriel hesitates, a flash of concern crossing his features. “Are you sure? After everything last night—”
“I’m fine,” I cut him off, not wanting to revisit those moments of weakness. “Nobody’s going to grab me in broad daylight at a drive-thru.”
“But—”
I cut him off with a kiss. “Go shower. You smell like sex and me.”
“Is that a bad thing?” He leans in, lips brushing my ear. “I enjoy your scent on me.”
I smack his ass. “Go on. Get. I’ll be back before you’re done.”
“Fine.” With a huff, he heads for the bathroom. “Make sure you take your phone.”
“Yes, Mom.”
He flips me off before closing himself in the bathroom.
As I head to the bedroom for a shirt and socks, Gabriel’s pants on the floor catch my attention. With a grin, I bend and dig the sleek, black key fob from his pocket. A leather keyring dangles from it, bearing the Rockford logo embossed in gold.
In one of his many attempts to give me gifts, he’d offered to buy me a new car. This isn’t stealing, it’s a test drive. Besides, I’ll be back before he’s done. I pull on a T-shirt, pocket the keys, and slip out the door while steam still billows from beneath the bathroom door.
Gabriel’s car sits in the visitor spot near my building, its glossy black exterior reflecting the morning sun.
It’s not the flashiest of the Rockford fleet.
He learned that lesson after his last car got boosted, but it still stands out among the rusted sedans and practical SUVs filling the rest of the lot.
As I slide into the driver’s seat, the leather upholstery cradles my body, softer than anything in my apartment. The interior smells of cedar and citrus, with underlying notes of Gabriel’s cologne, as if his scent has become part of the vehicle itself.
My fingers trace the steering wheel, smooth and cool beneath my touch. The dashboard gleams with untouched screens and buttons, their purpose a mystery to someone who drives vehicles designed decades earlier.
I search for an ignition key before remembering this model starts with a button. My fingers probe around the steering column until I find it, and the engine purrs to life.
With a grin, I buckle myself in, and as I do, my fingers brush the corner of something wedged between the seat and the center console.
Curious, I pull at it, and a manila folder slides free, its edges crisp. I frown, expecting receipts or business documents, the kind of thing Gabriel would keep in his car for meetings with Rockford associates.
When I flip open the cover, though, my breath catches.
Juvenile Detention File: Samuel Ortiz.
My identification number stares back at me from the top of the page, the same six digits from the photograph in the threatening envelope.
Blood rushes in my ears as I flip through the contents, skimming through the family history section with its clinical description of parental neglect and foster placement failure.
The incident report comes next, detailing my attack on the house manager who had hurt Micah. No mention of what provoked me, only the aftermath of a broken jaw, a fractured orbital bone, and three dislodged teeth.
Excessive force, the report concludes.
Uncontrolled rage.
A danger to others.
My fingers shake as I turn to the next section of disciplinary actions within the detention facility. Each infraction is cataloged with dates and punishments. Three months in, the pattern changes. Fewer fights. Increased isolation. Requests to be left alone during showers.
The psych evaluation notes the shift without identifying its cause.
Subject displays avoidant behavior consistent with a trauma response. Refuses to discuss interactions with staff. Recommended for continued observation.
No mention of the guard. No record of the abuse, visible to anyone who understands the signs. Only the evidence of its impact on my behavior.
Anyone like Gabriel, with his Rockford connections and resources, could read between these lines and piece together what happened to me.
Heat floods my cheeks, shame and rage mingling into a toxic blend that burns beneath my skin. I read every page, forcing myself to witness the full extent of the violation.
The file contains medical records, noting injuries consistent with physical altercations but failing to question their true origin. It documents my withdrawal, my silence, my eventual compliance, all without acknowledging the cause.
The last page contains a request for the release of sealed records, signed by a judge whose name I don’t recognize. The petitioner’s name has been redacted, but the date is recent.
Three days ago. A rush order, processed within hours of submission.
I close the folder with unsteady hands, bile rising.
Gabriel didn’t stumble across these documents by accident. He sought them out, using Rockford connections to access what should have remained buried.
The same Gabriel who held me through the night. Who touched me with gentle hands. Who confessed his insecurities about his place in the Rockford family.
All while investigating my past behind my back.
The betrayal knocks the wind from me, and I’m unable to process how he obtained these sealed records or why he kept them hidden from me. Possibilities race through my mind, none of them good. All of them painful.
How long has he known about my past? Was everything between us built on his knowledge of my weaknesses?
The car closes in around me, the scent of his cologne suffocating. I clutch the folder to my chest and exit the vehicle, not bothering to lock it behind me as I stride back toward my apartment.
My key slides into the lock, the familiar resistance giving way as I push open the door to find Gabriel coming out of the bathroom, hair dripping onto his bare shoulders, a white towel clinging to his hips.
He lights up when he sees me, and the adoring smile spreading across his features twists my stomach into knots. “That was fast. Did you forget your wallet?”
The words die as his attention catches on the folder in my hand.
Recognition registers, followed by panic, and the color drains from his cheeks. “I can explain.”
I place the folder on the counter with deliberate care as I fight to contain the rage building beneath my skin. “Explain what? How you got access to sealed juvenile records? Or why you kept them hidden while fucking me?”
Gabriel takes a step forward, water droplets falling from his hair to trace paths down his chest. His hands rise in supplication, palms open as if approaching a wounded animal. “It’s not what you think.”
“Tell me what I think.” I remain motionless by the counter. “Tell me exactly what’s going through my head right now, since you know everything about me.”
His throat works as he swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing. “Sebastian discovered the bounty on you first. We needed to understand why someone would target you.”
“So you dug into my past.” The wall around my heart begins to rebuild, brick by brick. “You read about every fucked up detail of my childhood. Every incident report. Every psych evaluation.”
“Not everything.” He secures the towel slipping at his waist with trembling fingers. “Only what was operationally relevant.”
“And the part about what happened in juvie?” The question hangs between us. “Was that operationally relevant?”
Gabriel flinches. “No. I didn’t—”
“Stop lying.” I struggle to hold myself together, my heartbeat pounding. “You figured it out before I ever shared it. Before I trusted you with the information.”
He takes another step toward me, water pooling beneath his bare feet on the linoleum. “Saint, please. Yes, I knew some of it, but not the details. Not what he did to you. Not how it affected you.”
“Get out.” The command cuts through the air between us.
Gabriel freezes, his body going rigid. “What?”
“Get dressed and leave.”
“Wait, let me explain.” He moves toward me, panic bleeding into every motion. “I can fix this.”
“There’s nothing to fix.” My fingers curl into fists at my sides, nails biting into my palms. “You investigated me behind my back. You let me believe I was choosing to share my past with you, when you already knew.”
“Saint—”
“No.” I cut him off. “You don’t get to say my name anymore. You don’t get to pretend you care about me when all you wanted was information.”
Gabriel moves forward, hand outstretched to bridge the gap between us. “That’s not true. The file came after, not before. I’ve wanted you since the moment we first met.”
I step back as he approaches, and the movement stops him in his tracks.
“You talked about trust last night,” I whisper. “All while keeping those files in your car.”
“I was trying to protect you.” Water drips from his hair onto his shoulders, tracking down his chest in rivulets. “I needed to know what we were facing.”
“There is no we.” I hold perfectly still. “There never was.”
Devastation replaces his panic, and his arms fall limply at his sides, shoulders slumping in defeat. The towel slips lower on his hips, but he doesn’t move to fix it.
“Your clothes are still in the bedroom.” I gesture toward the hallway. “Take them and go.”
For a moment, I think he might fight, might refuse to leave, might try once more to explain. Instead, his chin dips in acceptance.
He retreats to the bedroom, returning moments later dressed in yesterday’s clothes. His hair remains damp, curling at the ends, and water spots darken the fabric of his shirt.
He pauses at the door, hand resting on the knob. “I never meant to hurt you. Everything between us was real. Is real.”
“You can’t build real on lies.” I turn away from him, staring at the wall above my couch. “Shut the door behind you.”
The silence stretches, broken only by the sound of his uneven breathing. Then the door opens, the hinges creaking.
“I’m sorry, Saint.”
The click of the door closing echoes through my apartment, a sound that should bring relief but instead carves out a chunk of flesh from my chest.
I stand motionless, my body a statue, while my mind races through the betrayal on high-speed replay.
The room tilts, reality shifting beneath my feet. Breathe. I force air into my lungs, the expansion painful beneath my ribs.
My eyes return to the manila folder sitting on the counter where I left it. Innocuous beige paper containing the worst moments of my life, laid bare for someone else’s scrutiny.
For Gabriel’s scrutiny.
The thought of him reading those pages, absorbing descriptions of my trauma, sends acid burning up my throat.
Then a dangerous numbness spreads from my chest outward, creeping through my limbs with familiar coldness.
Two can play at this investigation game.
I reach for my phone, scrolling to a contact I rarely use. Ghost answers on the second ring.
“I want you to look into Gabriel Rockford for me.” I walk into the bedroom and yank the cum-covered sheets off the bed. “Send a courier to my place for a pickup. I need a DNA test run. I should have enough favors in the ledger to cover it.”
A pause, brief but considering. “You sure about this?”
The numbness recedes, replaced by cold focus. If Gabriel Rockford thinks he can dissect my life without consequences, he’s about to learn what it feels like to be the one under the knife.
“I’m sure.”