Chapter 22
The elevator doors close with a soft hiss, sealing us into the metal box that will carry us from the underground clinic at Rockford Manor up to Gabriel’s suite.
My back rests against the wall, shoulders bunching beneath the thick layers of medical tape. The mirror-like surface of the doors throws our images back at us, two battered men held together by stitches, bandages, and nervous excitement.
Gabriel stands close enough for our arms to brush, his left arm cradled in a sling across his chest. A purple bruise blooms along his jawline, disappearing beneath the white bandage on his temple.
He shifts toward me by fractions, and I adjust without thinking, needing to touch him again to remind myself he’s still here.
Gabriel’s breathing comes uneven, each inhale catching before releasing. The doctors downstairs said his ribs were bruised, not broken, but the distinction matters little when each breath brings pain.
“You should have taken the painkillers,” I murmur, watching the floor numbers illuminate one by one.
“So should you,” he rasps, throat wrecked from screaming earlier, when Darrow worked him over.
The memory fires through my nerves, threatening to drag me back to that townhouse, to the coppery stench of blood and the sound of Gabriel fighting for his life in another room. I blink hard, forcing myself back to this metal box, to the present where both our hearts still beat.
“You can relax now,” Gabriel says, his uninjured hand sliding down to brush mine. “We’re inside the most secure building in the city.”
My fingers twitch, but don’t pull away. “I’ll feel better once we’re in your suite.”
The numbers continue their ascent, each floor taking us further from the underground medical facility where Rockford doctors spent hours running x-rays and cleaning wounds.
Not once did they ask how we got our injuries, nor did they handle me with less care than they did him.
When the elevator stops at the fifth floor, Gabriel sways, and I wrap an arm around him. He leans into the support with a sigh of contentment, as if we’ve been propping each other up for years instead of hours.
The doors slide open to a wide hallway lined with thick burgundy carpet. Two security personnel stand at attention near the elevator bank, monitoring the corridor. They neither speak nor approach, keeping a careful distance.
“This way.” Gabriel guides us to the right.
We move down the hall at a pace set by injury rather than urgency. The carpet swallows our footsteps, sealing us into a quiet broken by Gabriel’s ragged breathing. The pain medication he refused downstairs shows in the rigid line of his back and the tension locked into his jaw.
Three doors down, he pauses before a set of double doors to scan his fingerprint. It beeps once before the lock disengages. He pushes the door open with his good shoulder, revealing darkness beyond.
“Lights, forty percent,” he commands as we cross the threshold.
Warm illumination blooms from recessed fixtures, revealing a spacious living area with floor-to-ceiling windows that look out over the estate grounds.
The deep leather couch, two armchairs, and coffee table of polished wood speak of comfort rather than riches.
A doorway to the right leads to what must be the bedroom, while another on the left opens to a small dining nook and home office.
The door closes behind us with a solid click, followed by the mechanical sound of locks engaging. One, two, three separate mechanisms slide into place, securing us from the outside world.
I should feel trapped. Cornered. My body should be screaming to find the exits, to map escape routes, to never leave my back to the door.
Instead, I relax for the first time in days.
Gabriel moves to a panel on the wall, tapping a sequence that causes the windows to darken, preventing anyone outside from seeing in while still giving us a view. The city lights glitter in the distance, separated from us by acres of manicured Rockford property.
“No one can get in without permission,” he says. “Not even family.”
“Good.” The word falls from my lips before I can consider its implications.
Gabriel turns to me. “Shower, then bed.”
The doctor had done basic cleanup to see to our wounds, but it left both of us reeking of antiseptic, layered over the metallic tang of blood that no amount of medical cleaning could remove.
And beneath it all lingers fear, cold sweat, and violence, the potent cocktail clinging to our skin like a second layer.
I follow as he leads us toward a door on the far side of the bedroom. My legs move on autopilot, muscles pulled during the fight with Winters protesting from sitting too long while doctors cleaned and stitched the deeper cuts.
Gabriel flicks on the light in the bathroom to reveal marble floors that radiate heat, a double vanity with mirrors that stretch to the ceiling, and a glass-walled shower large enough for four people, not just the two Gabriel promised.
He moves to the shower, turning knobs with his good hand. Water cascades from a rainfall head mounted in the ceiling, steam rising. He struggles one-handed with the buttons of his shirt, fabric catching on the edges of his sling.
Without asking, I step forward and brush his fingers aside. “Let me.”
He stills, allowing my hands to take over the task. I work down the line of buttons, revealing more bandages beneath, white gauze taped across his ribs where Darrow’s boot connected multiple times. Purple bruises spread outward from the dressing like ink in water.
I ease the strap over his head with careful movements, watching him for signs of pain. His features tighten, but he remains silent as I remove the support, freeing his injured arm. The shirt slides from his shoulders next, fabric catching on the bandage at the back of his neck.
“Can you manage the rest?” I ask.
“Yeah.” Gabriel’s hands move to his belt.
I turn away to give him privacy, focusing on my own clothes. My fingers fumble with zippers and buttons, clumsy with exhaustion. Each layer removed reveals bruised ribs, scraped knuckles, and a burn on my lower back from where Darrow pressed the taser.
Waterproof bandages cover the worst of the wounds, and I peel the gauze off the lesser injuries, knowing they’ll need to be reapplied after I get clean.
By the time I finish, Gabriel has already stepped into the shower.
Water sluices down his back, revealing the true extent of damage hidden beneath his clothes and bandages.
Bruises paint his skin in purple and blue.
A crisscross of scratches marks his shoulders, shallow enough to avoid stitches but deep enough to sting.
He turns, reaching back with his uninjured arm in a silent invitation.
As I step in behind him, the water hits like tiny needles, temperature hovering just below scalding. It stings the cuts on my hands and the raw skin at my wrists, but the heat seeps into aching muscles with blessed relief.
Steam rises between us, fogging the glass walls. Gabriel turns around, water plastering his hair to his forehead, running in rivulets down the planes of his face.
With a groan, my lips settle over his, tentative at first, then firmer. His mouth tastes of copper and salt, of survival and exhaustion. The kiss lacks the hungry desperation of our previous encounters, replaced by tenderness and hurt not yet healed.
But the connection falters, breaking apart as Gabriel’s legs tremble beneath him. Pain and fatigue claim their due, his body beginning to shut down.
Instead of pulling away, he leans forward to rest his head on my shoulder. His arms wrap around me, and he relaxes, trusting me to hold him upright.
My hands settle, one at the small of his back, the other cradling the nape of his neck where no injuries lie. His breath warms my skin in uneven bursts, body trembling with the effort of remaining standing.
“I’ve got you,” I murmur.
Gabriel’s answer comes as a slight tightening of his arms around me. His body sags further, surrendering to exhaustion and trust.
I lean into the contact, my cheek resting on Gabriel’s wet hair. When I set out earlier today, I wasn’t sure if I’d ever hold him like this again, and now I can’t imagine ever letting him go.
Gabriel’s body shifts against mine, and the unmistakable hardness of his arousal brushes my thigh.
Despite exhaustion and pain, his cock hardens between us, radiating a heat I can feel even under the shower’s scalding spray.
His head turns, lips finding my neck in a feather-light touch that sends electricity racing down my spine.
“I want you so bad,” he murmurs, lips caressing my skin. “But I’m not sure I have the strength for it.”
My pulse quickens, blood rushing south as my own dick stirs in response, and my hand slides lower on his back. “Your ribs are bruised, and your arm is fractured.”
“I’m aware.” His lips curve against my throat. “Ignore me. It’s the adrenaline crash.”
But I can’t ignore the way his breath catches when my fingers trace the unmarked skin at his hip, or how his body seeks to be closer despite the pain it must cause. Instead of pulling away, I reach between our bodies, wrapping my hand around both our lengths.
Gabriel’s breath hitches, a soft moan escaping as I pump us together in a slow, steady rhythm. Water cascades over our shoulders, providing a slick glide that eases the friction. His uninjured arm wraps around me, fingers splaying across my lower back to draw me closer.
“Feels good,” he moans, his lips traveling up to my jaw in a series of open-mouthed kisses.
When his teeth graze my pulse point, my grip tightens, and I twist my wrist in a way that pulls a groan from deep in his chest.
Our bodies align despite the awkward positioning, his injured arm trapped between us. My thumb circles the heads of our cocks with each upstroke, spreading the precum that mixes with the water running down our bodies.
“Saint,” he breathes, hips moving in shallow thrusts that match my rhythm.
His mouth finds mine, tongue sliding between my lips to taste me, to claim me in a way more intimate than the hand between us.
I kiss him back, pouring everything I can’t say into the connection of our mouths. My hand never stops its movement, picking up speed as heat builds in my hips. Gabriel moans into the kiss, the sound vibrating through my chest and settling in my bones.
His body trembles, muscles tensing as he approaches the edge. I adjust my grip, applying pressure where he’s most sensitive. The knowledge of his body, of what brings him pleasure, hits me with unexpected force. We built this familiarity in such a short time, through violence and tenderness alike.
“Come with me,” he whispers, his breathing ragged and uneven.
My own release builds, coiling tight at the base of my spine. I rock into my fist, our cocks sliding together in a rhythm that grows erratic as control slips away. Gabriel’s hand slides up to cup the back of my neck, fingers tangling in my wet hair.
His whole body goes taut, and Gabriel comes with a broken cry, his release pulsing hot over my fingers and stomach before the water washes it away. Witnessing his pleasure and the way he shudders within my hold pushes me over the edge.
My orgasm crashes through me in waves, muscles clenching as I spill between us, adding to the mess before the shower rinses us clean.
For long moments, we stand under the spray, bodies pressed together, breath mingling in the steam-filled air. Gabriel sags against me, all his remaining strength leaving him at once. I hold him upright, my free arm low around his waist, hand gripping his hip to avoid most of his injuries.
When our breathing steadies, I reach for the soap dispenser, squeezing a dollop into my palm. With gentle movements, I wash us both.
Gabriel allows me to maneuver him around, rinsing away soap and the last traces of the night’s violence. His lids droop, exhaustion overtaking his effort to stay present.
“Almost done,” I murmur, turning off the water when we’re both clean.
I step out first, grabbing two fluffy towels from the heated rack on the wall. Wrapping one around my hips, I use the other to dry Gabriel with care, starting with his hair and working my way down. He submits to my care without protest, swaying on his feet.
“You need to lie down before you fall down,” I tell him, securing the towel around his hips.
His hand finds mine as I lead him to the bedroom. The king-sized bed dominates the space, its dark covers already turned down. Gabriel collapses on the edge, his movements clumsy with fatigue.
“Let me get the bandages and your sling back on,” I say, retrieving it from the bathroom.
He tracks my movements, heavy-lidded but alert, as if he worries I’ll vanish. I feel the same and hurry back to his side, setting the sling on the bed beside him.
Gabriel sits patiently as I kneel before him, unwrapping fresh bandages for his ribs. My fingers brush his skin, pausing when his breathing catches, then easing the compression wrap around his torso with careful pressure.
“Good?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he says, his jaw clenched.
I check the waterproof bandages covering his stitches, running my finger around the edges to ensure they’re still sealed. Satisfied they’re dry, I guide his injured arm into the sling, sliding the fabric beneath his elbow before securing the strap behind his neck.
I check my own bandages with less care and reapply the bandage around my ribs with the ease of having done this dozens of times before.
Then, I help him into a pair of loose sleep pants, guiding each leg through with care. I find a similar pair in his dresser for myself, the soft cotton settling around me.
Gabriel shifts over in the bed, leaving space for me at his uninjured side.
I slide under the covers beside him, and we engage in a careful dance of limbs and bandages, trying to find a position that accommodates our various injuries. After several adjustments, Gabriel settles with his head on my shoulder, injured arm cradled between us, his leg hooked over mine.
“Comfortable?” I ask, my arm curling around his back.
“Mmm.” The sound hums against my chest as his lashes lower and his body goes slack with trust.
My fingers trace idle patterns on his skin, avoiding the bandages that mark the worst of his wounds. His breathing deepens, body growing heavier as sleep claims him.
I gaze at the ceiling, listening to the steady rhythm of Gabriel’s breath and counting the rise and fall of his chest, grateful that I didn’t lose him.