Chapter 23
Iwake in fragments throughout the night, and each time, Gabriel’s body remains tangled with mine, his good arm thrown across my chest, leg hooked over mine.
My hand rests on his forearm, his pulse steady beneath my fingertips, counting heartbeats until sleep claims me again.
When morning arrives, it seeps through the edges of blackout curtains in thin strips of gold.
Gabriel’s steady breaths rise and fall beside me, his face buried in the pillow, hair wild from sleep and still damp from our shower.
The sheets twist around our bodies, evidence of restless dreams neither of us mentions.
I ease out from under Gabriel’s arm, careful not to wake him as I slip from the bed. The plush carpet cushions my bare feet as I cross to the front door. If I can find my way down to the dining room, there should be food available that I can bring back upstairs.
But when I open the door, I discover I don’t need to go that far. A cart waits just outside. I inspect its contents, lifting silver domes to find eggs, bacon, toast, and fresh fruit.
A note in elegant script reads,
Call if you need anything.
—A
Aaiden. Of course.
I pull the cart into the suite and lock the door again.
The coffee pours dark and rich into bone china cups thinner than any mug I’ve ever owned. I drink standing, watching Gabriel sleep through the open bedroom door.
In daylight, the extent of his injuries becomes more apparent, the bruises darker, the cuts more vivid. His injured shoulder peeks from beneath the sheet, mottled purple spreading up toward his neck. Morning stubble darkens his jaw, contrasting with the pallor beneath his tan.
He stirs and smiles at me. “What time is it?”
“After nine.” I return to the bedroom, carrying a cup of coffee for him. “Breakfast arrived.”
Gabriel pushes himself upright with a wince, reaching for the coffee with his good hand. “Thanks.”
He drinks without speaking, lashes fluttering with appreciation.
“Hungry?” I ask when he finishes half the cup.
“Yeah, let’s eat on the couch. It’s more comfortable for my shoulder.”
Gabriel pulls on sweatpants one-handed while I grab a pair of his lounge pants from a drawer he points out. The fabric hangs loose on my narrower hips, but the length works fine.
The couch cushions welcome us with perfect support, neither too soft nor too firm. Gabriel settles at one end while I take the other, the breakfast cart between us. We share food without discussion, passing plates back and forth, his knee bumping mine when he shifts position.
“These eggs are perfect,” Gabriel says, breaking the comfortable silence.
I hum in agreement around a mouthful of bacon. “Your kitchen staff are incredible.”
“Not my staff,” he corrects. “Family staff. Big difference.”
The distinction matters to him, I realize. Another reminder of his uncertainty about his place in the Rockford hierarchy. I don’t argue the point, focusing instead on the fresh berries that share no resemblance with the half-moldy fruit I buy at the discount grocery near my apartment.
My apartment. The thought triggers another realization.
“I should tell Micah I’m here,” I say, setting down my fork.
Gabriel snorts, then winces. “I’m sure someone already told him, and he’ll be knocking on our door any second.”
“Your family are all gossips.”
“Sebastian would have told him as soon as he knew we were safe.” Gabriel reaches for more toast. “Your bestie has my brother wrapped around his dainty little finger.”
“As he should.”
Gabriel laughs, then groans and holds a hand to his ribs. “Don’t make me laugh.”
“Reconsidering not taking those pain meds?”
“We’ll get your fingerprint added to the door lock so you can come and go whenever you want,” Gabriel says, ignoring my suggestion. “You’re not a prisoner here.”
“But you want me to stay here,” I guess.
“I do.” Gabriel sets his plate aside. “We need to talk about Tony.”
The food I just ate turns into a solid ball in my stomach. “What about him?”
“He’s still free,” Gabriel says, not sugarcoating the facts. “His operation is collapsing, most of his lieutenants arrested or in hiding, but that only increases the risk.”
“A cornered animal,” I agree.
“Exactly.” Gabriel shifts, wincing as the movement pulls at his injured shoulder. “Your apartment isn’t safe anymore.”
“I can take care of myself.”
“You’ve already proven that,” he soothes. “You survived juvie. You killed Winters. No one questions your capability.”
The simple acknowledgment of my strength defuses my defensive reaction. This isn’t about my abilities, but about practicalities.
“Tony has your address,” Gabriel continues. “He has resources. Connections. Your building has no security system, no cameras, no doorman. Those are facts, not judgments.”
Put that way, I can’t argue. My apartment, with its cheap lock and fire escape accessibility from the alley, might as well have a welcome mat out for anyone determined to get inside.
“The manor has state-of-the-art security,” Gabriel says. “Motion sensors, armed personnel, and bulletproof glass. If you stay here, Tony would need an army to reach you. Those are also facts.”
“What about work?” I ask, testing the waters.
“Rowan’s already been in touch. He called last night while you were with the doctors.” Gabriel reaches for his coffee. “His exact words were, ‘Tell the stubborn fucker to heal before he shows his face again.’”
That pulls a laugh from me. “Sounds like Rowan.”
And I already got fired from Foundation after going MIA.
I take his coffee from him and sip from the rim. “I suppose I could be your kept man until Tony’s handled.”
Gabriel’s tongue skims over his bottom lip. “I’ll take care of all your needs.”
“Oh, yeah?” I set the cup aside and scoot closer to him. “What did you have in mind?”
He shifts on the sofa and adjusts his sling. “If we’re careful—”
A knock at the door draws me up short, followed by a familiar voice calling through the wood. “Room service for the walking wounded!”
Micah.
I groan and ease back. “Raincheck?”
“I’ll be waiting.”
Gabriel rises from the sofa, shifts his semi-hard cock in his sweats, takes his coffee, and disappears back toward the bedroom while I go to answer the door.
Micah bursts into the suite, carrying a basket of pastries and wearing one of Sebastian’s shirts, the sleeves rolled up to accommodate his smaller frame. He freezes mid-step when he spots me, blue eyes widening as they catalog my visible injuries.
“Holy shit.” He sets the pastry box on the nearest surface. “You look like you got hit by a truck and then the truck backed up to hit you again.”
The familiar bluntness pulls a laugh from me. “You should see the truck.”
Micah crosses the room in three quick strides and stops short of touching me, hands hovering with uncharacteristic uncertainty. “Can I hug you? Or will something fall off?”
“I’ll take the risk,” I say, opening my arms.
He steps into the embrace with careful restraint, his arms circling my waist with none of his usual exuberance. His citrus and mint shampoo fills my nose, so achingly familiar it threatens to crack the composure I’ve maintained since waking.
I rub his back and breathe in his familiar pheromones. “I’m still here.”
Micah pulls back, searching my face. Whatever he finds there satisfies him, because he gives me one last squeeze before he releases me. No demands for explanations or apologies. No recriminations for my silence or questions about my disappearance. He accepts what I offer without requiring more.
“Sebastian told me what happened,” he says, keeping things light despite the heavy subject. “Not everything, but enough. Said you went all Rambo on the bad guys.”
“Not exactly how I’d describe it,” I reply.
“No?” Micah grins, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “What about ‘badass motherfucker who took out the trash’?” He covers his mouth as he giggles. “Sebastian used those exact words.”
The mental image of timid Sebastian cussing draws a laugh from me, and Micah’s smile widens in response.
“I’ve missed you,” he says softly.
“Sorry it took me so long to get here.”
“I brought cinnamon rolls. Mrs. Bustley does them way better than that bakery you like,” Micah says, retrieving the basket. “You’ll never go back to the boxed kind.”
We settle on the sofa, the pastry box open between us.
Micah turns to shout toward the bedroom. “Get your ass out here, Gabe. We have more than enough to share.”
Gabriel pops back out. “I just ordered more coffee to be sent up.”
He strides over to the sofa, then hesitates until I shift and pat the cushion beside me. He cuddles into the small space, and Micah smirks at the closeness, but doesn’t comment.
As we eat, he catches me up on all of the Rockford family gossip while updates filter through via texts to Gabriel’s phone. Tony’s people are scattering to neighboring cities. His money is drying up as accounts freeze. And his name is losing credibility with each passing hour.
“Sebastian says they found three more safe houses this morning,” Gabriel relays, scrolling through messages. “Empty but recently used. Tony’s running out of places to hide.”
Micah stays for another hour, his presence a balm I didn’t realize I needed. When he leaves with a promise to return tomorrow, I feel lighter, happy to have my friend back by my side.
I drift to the balcony doors, watching sunlight move across the manicured gardens below. The estate sprawls in all directions, acres of tended greenery insulating the manor from the city beyond its gates. Workers move between flower beds, their forms small from this height.
Gabriel joins me. “Penny for your thoughts?”
“Not worth that much,” I reply.
He leans into my side, giving me time to sort my thoughts.
“Tony’s still out there,” I say eventually, watching a gardener kneel beside a bed of late-blooming flowers. “This isn’t over.”
“No,” Gabriel agrees. “But he’s weakened now more than ever. His people are abandoning him.”
“Men like that are most dangerous when cornered.”
“True.” Gabriel shifts, turning to study my profile rather than the view. “But he’s one man against the combined resources of Rockford Holdings, not to mention Avery’s mercenaries are on the lookout for him, too. It’s only a matter of time before we catch him.”
Put that way, the odds sound almost comical.
Gabriel’s hand moves into my field of vision, palm up in silent offering. Not grabbing, not presuming, but inviting.
My hand lifts to meet his, palms sliding together, fingers interlocking without hesitation.
Gabriel’s thumb brushes over my knuckles in a soothing caress.
The danger isn’t gone. Tony remains a threat, his whereabouts unknown, his vendetta personal now that we’ve crippled his operation and killed his men.
But standing here with Gabriel’s hand in mine, I recognize the choice I’ve made. To stay. To be seen. To build something outside the cages that shaped me.
Not because I need protection or lack the strength to stand alone. Not because running has lost its appeal or fighting has lost its thrill.
But because, for the first time in my life, what lies behind me holds less power than what stands beside me, and what waits ahead is a future I choose rather than one forced upon me by circumstance or survival.
This moment isn’t about certainty or promises. It’s about commitment to possibility.
And as Gabriel’s fingers tighten around mine, I hold on tight.