Chapter 18 - Gabriel
The sheets still smell like her.
I lie in the wreckage of my bed, staring at the ceiling, breathing in the lingering traces of rosemary and sex and something uniquely her. The morning light has turned harsh now, afternoon encroaching, but I haven't moved since she left.
I should feel satisfied. I got what I wanted—her surrender, her body, her admission that she can't stop thinking about me. The prey has finally stopped running. The conquest is complete.
So why do I feel like I'm the one who's been captured?
I close my eyes and let the memories wash over me. The sound she made when I first pushed inside her. The way her back arched when I hit that spot deep within. The desperate, broken way she said my name—Gabriel, Gabriel, Gabriel—like a prayer to a god she didn't believe in.
The memory alone is enough to make me hard again.
This is a problem.
I've had women before. Many women, though none that mattered.
The pattern was always the same: the chase, the conquest, the rapid fading of interest once they gave in.
The thrill was in the pursuit, not the capture.
Once they surrendered, they became interchangeable—warm bodies to use and discard, scratching an itch that never quite went away.
I expected her to be the same. I expected the obsession to fade once I'd had her, once the mystery was stripped away along with her clothes. I expected to wake this morning feeling sated, satisfied, ready to move on to other concerns.
Instead, I woke wanting her more than ever.
The taste of her is still on my tongue. The feel of her skin is still imprinted on my palms. And when she tried to leave—when she slid out of bed and reached for her clothes—something inside me snarled.
I don't like that. I don't like needing anything, wanting anything, feeling anything that I can't control. Control is everything. Control is what separates men like me from the animals that run on pure instinct.
But when I'm with her, control feels like a distant memory.
I finally force myself out of bed around two o'clock. The house staff have returned—I can hear them moving through the lower floors, the quiet efficiency of people who know better than to disturb me. I shower, dress, try to focus on the mountain of work waiting for me.
The Hartwell acquisition. The Henderson situation. The quarterly Brotherhood meeting that I've been postponing for weeks. A dozen fires that need my attention, decisions that only I can make.
None of it holds my interest.
I find myself in my study, standing at the window, staring at nothing. The sketch is in my pocket—her serpent and dahlia, worn soft from constant handling. I pull it out and trace the lines with my finger, remembering the look on her face when I asked her why she drew it.
I felt something watching me. Something interested.
She felt me before she knew me. She drew us before we'd ever spoken. Whatever connection exists between us, it predates the gala, the murder, the careful game I've been playing.
Maybe it predates both of us entirely.
The thought is uncomfortably close to fate, to destiny, to all the mystical nonsense I've never believed in. I don't believe in anything I can't see, touch, control. The universe is chaos, and the only order that exists is the order we impose through strength and will.
And yet.
And yet this woman drew a serpent whispering to a flower weeks before I stood over a corpse and watched her watch me. And yet she kept the dahlia I left on her doorstep instead of throwing it away. And yet she looked at me through that doorway and saw the monster and still—
Still.
A knock at the study door interrupts my spiraling thoughts.
"Come in."
Josiah enters, his expression the careful neutral that means he's about to say something I won't like.
"Brother. I was hoping we could discuss the Henderson matter."
"Not now."
"It can't wait much longer. He's been making noise about—"
"I said not now."
Josiah stops, studying me with those sharp eyes that see too much. I keep my face blank, but something must show through, because his expression shifts from neutral to concerned.
"What's happened?"
"Nothing."
"You look..." He pauses, searching for the right word. "Distracted."
"I'm fine."
"You've been 'fine' for weeks now, and the business is suffering for it. The Brotherhood is starting to ask questions." He moves closer, lowering his voice even though we're alone. "Gabriel, whatever this is with the florist—"
"Her name is Poppy."
The sharpness in my voice surprises us both. Josiah's eyebrows rise.
"Poppy, then. Whatever this is, it's affecting your judgment. You need to—"
"I need to what?" I turn from the window, letting him see the warning in my eyes. "Choose your words carefully, brother. You're treading on dangerous ground."
Josiah holds my gaze for a long moment. He's not afraid of me—he's one of the few people who isn't—but he's smart enough to know when to push and when to retreat.
"I'm concerned about you," he says finally. "That's all. You've never been like this before. Not with anyone."
"Like what?"
"Consumed." He says the word like a diagnosis. "She's all you think about. All you talk about. All you care about. It's not healthy, Gabriel. It's not safe."
He's right. I know he's right. But knowing doesn't change anything.
"I have the situation under control," I say.
"Do you?"
"Yes."
The lie comes easily, but we both know it's a lie. Josiah sighs and shakes his head.
"I hope you know what you're doing," he says. "Because if this goes wrong—if she becomes a problem—the Brotherhood won't hesitate to solve it. With or without your permission."
The threat lands exactly as intended. Cold fury rises in my chest.
"If anyone touches her," I say quietly, "I'll kill them myself. Brotherhood or not. Do you understand?"
Josiah stares at me. I see the shock register in his eyes, the realization of how far gone I really am. I've never threatened Brotherhood members before. I've never put anything—anyone—above the family, the organization, the legacy we've built.
Until now.
"I understand," he says slowly. "I hope you do too."
He leaves without another word.
I stand alone in my study, breathing hard, trying to calm the rage still simmering in my blood. The threat was real. If anyone tried to hurt her, I would destroy them without hesitation. Brother, cousin, ally—it wouldn't matter.
She's mine now. And I protect what's mine.
The realization should concern me. It does concern me, in a distant, intellectual way. But the visceral truth is simpler: I would burn the Brotherhood to the ground before I let them touch her.
What does that make me? What have I become?
I don't know. I don't care.
I pull out my phone and type the message before I can think better of it: Tonight. 8 pm. A car will collect you.
Her response comes within minutes: I'll be ready.
Three words. That's all. But the relief that floods through me is embarrassing in its intensity. She's coming back. She'll be here in a few hours, in my space, in my arms, in my bed.
The afternoon crawls by. I try to work, to focus, to be the man I was before she walked into my life. It's impossible. My mind keeps circling back to her—the sounds she makes, the way she tastes, the look in her eyes when she finally stopped fighting and let herself want me.
By seven o'clock, I've given up any pretense of productivity. I shower again, change into fresh clothes, pour myself a whiskey I don't really want. The house feels too quiet, too empty, too full of spaces where she isn't.
When the car finally pulls up at eight, I'm waiting at the door like a dog.
She steps out into the evening light, and the sight of her hits me like a physical blow. She's wearing something simple—dark jeans, a soft sweater—but it doesn't matter what she's wearing. She could be wrapped in burlap, and she'd still be the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.
The marks from last night are visible on her throat, peeking above her collar. She hasn't tried to hide them. The realization sends a surge of primitive satisfaction through me.
Mine. Marked. Claimed.
"You came," I say, which is stupid—of course she came, I summoned her—but my brain isn't functioning properly.
"You asked." She stops at the bottom of the steps, looking up at me. There's something different in her expression tonight. Less fear. More... acceptance? Resignation? I can't quite read it.
"I didn't ask. I told."
"Yes." A faint smile touches her lips. "You did."
I descend the steps and stop in front of her, close enough to touch but not touching. Not yet. I want to savor this moment—the anticipation, the tension, the electricity crackling between us.
"You could have said no," I tell her.
"Could I?"
"Yes." The word surprises me even as I say it. "You could have. I wouldn't have forced you."
She studies my face, searching for something. Whatever she finds seems to satisfy her, because her shoulders relax slightly.
"I didn't want to say no," she admits. "That's the problem."
"Is it a problem?"
"Isn't it?" She laughs, but there's no humor in it. "I should want to run from you. I should be calling the police, hiring a lawyer, doing everything I can to escape. Instead, I spent all afternoon looking at the clock, counting the hours until I could see you again. What does that make me?"
"Mine," I say simply. "It makes you mine."
I close the distance between us and kiss her.
She melts into me immediately, her arms wrapping around my neck, her body pressing against mine.
The kiss is deep and hungry, full of all the hours I spent waiting for this moment.
I taste her desperation, her confusion, her desire—and underneath it all, the beginning of something that feels dangerously like surrender.
Not just physical surrender. Something deeper. Something more complete.
I pull back just enough to look at her face. Her eyes are dark, her lips swollen, her breathing ragged.
"Inside," I say. "Now."
We barely make it to the bedroom.
Later—much later—I lie in the darkness with her body curled against mine, listening to her breathe. She's asleep, or close to it, her face peaceful in a way I've never seen when she's awake.
I should sleep too. I should close my eyes and let unconsciousness take me, steal a few hours of rest before dawn brings new demands.
But I can't stop watching her.
She's beautiful like this. Soft and unguarded, the tension that usually tightens her features completely absent. Her lips are slightly parted. Her lashes cast shadows on her cheeks. One hand rests on my chest, directly over my heart.
I cover her hand with mine, feeling the warmth of her skin, the delicate bones beneath.
This is new. This feeling—this possessiveness, this protectiveness, this overwhelming need to keep her close and mine. I've never felt it before. I didn't know I was capable of feeling it.
Whatever this is, it's more than obsession. More than the simple hunger of a predator for prey. It's something I don't have a name for, something that defies the categories I've always used to understand myself.
She's gotten inside me somehow, worked her way beneath my skin, wrapped herself around something vital. She's become necessary in a way I never intended and can't seem to undo.
I should be alarmed by this. I should be pulling back, reestablishing distance, protecting myself from the vulnerability she represents. Attachment is a weakness. Need is a liability. These are truths I've lived by for as long as I can remember.
But when I look at her sleeping face, when I feel her heartbeat against my palm, those truths feel like lies I told myself to survive a world that offered nothing worth keeping.
She's worth keeping.
The thought settles into my chest like a stone dropped into still water, sending ripples through everything I thought I knew about myself. I'm not capable of this. I'm not built for this. I'm a predator, a monster, a man who takes what he wants and discards what he's taken.
But I don't want to discard her. I want to keep her. Possess her. Own her in every way a person can be owned.
Not just her body—I have that already. Something more. Something I can't quite articulate but feel with absolute certainty.
I want all of her. Every thought, every fear, every secret corner of her mind. I want to know her so completely that there's no part of her I haven't touched, haven't claimed, haven't made mine.
And I want her to want it too. Not because she has no choice, but because she chooses me. Chooses this. Chooses the monster over the light.
Is that possible? Can someone like her choose someone like me?
I don't know. But lying here in the dark with her body warm against mine, I find myself hoping.
Hope is dangerous. Hope is for fools and children and people who haven't learned how the world really works.
But I'm hoping anyway.
Mine, I think, pulling her closer. The word feels different now. Less like a claim of ownership.
More like a vow.