Chapter 22 - Gabriel
I’ve been watching my wife sleep for over an hour.
Most men would be exhausted after the night we had, but sleep feels like a waste of time when I could be doing this.
Blair is sprawled on her stomach, taking up seventy percent of the mattress. One arm hangs off the edge of the bed, and her face is buried so deep in the pillow that her dark hair fans out like ink across the white pillowcase.
She’s drooling a little.
A spot of dampness darkens the fabric near her cheek.
The urge to wake her up and drag her body under mine is an ache in my bones I know will never go away, but I force myself to stay still.
Her body needs to recover. The doctor was clear about stress with the baby and after her accident, and after the chaos of the gala, she needs every second of rest she can get.
My hand strokes down her back, feeling the heat radiating off her skin and the softness of her. She’s carrying the future of the Hollis name in a body I’ve claimed in every way a man can claim a woman, yet I want her more now than I ever have.
The vibration of my phone against the nightstand breaks my obsessive, wandering thoughts.
I snatch the device up before the second buzz can disturb her, sliding out of bed in one fluid motion. The hardwood floor is cold against my bare feet as I walk to the window, putting distance between the business I need to handle and the woman I need to protect.
One notification sits on the lock screen.
Cole: It’s done. Merry Christmas.
I take a deep breath and let it out, knowing the final obstacle to our future has been handled.
Vivienne Ashford is dead.
There are benefits to having a friend in the murder-for-hire business.
I stare at the gray sky outside, waiting for a flicker of guilt to manifest. I wait for the twinge of conscience that society says I should feel about ordering the death of a woman I watched grow up alongside Ryder.
Nothing comes.
Only the cold, practical sensation of a loose end being tied off.
Her first mistake was humiliating Blair last month. She doubled down when she handed Ryder the keys to that BMW. And then she gave me no choice when she manipulated a weak man into trying to kill my wife.
This was only going to end one way: with her no longer breathing.
I don't know the specifics of how it went down yet. I gave Cole two instructions: make sure she’s dead, and make sure her reputation dies with her. I wanted ruin. I wanted scandal. I wanted her name to live in infamy in this town forever.
But in the worst way.
Cole Callahan is a professional. If he says it’s done, it’s done.
I delete the message.
Turning back to the room, I check on Blair. She hasn't moved.
And I can breathe a little easier knowing she’s safe.
Ryder is nothing. James is in custody. Vivienne’s gone.
A fresh beginning stretches before us like the undisturbed white of the snow outside.
I pull on a pair of joggers and a t-shirt, even though every part of me wants to crawl back into bed. I could climb in beside my wife and wrap myself around her until she wakes up.
But I have work to do.
Downstairs, the house feels massive without the staff. I gave them the day off, wanting the estate to belong solely to us for twenty-four hours. Jaxon and his team are outside, invisible ghosts in the snow, but inside, we’re alone.
I head to my office first.
The hidden safe behind the painting opens with a biometric scan. I bypass the stacks of cash and the sensitive files, reaching for the long velvet box I stashed there weeks ago.
It’s heavy.
I run a hand over the crimson fabric before carrying it into the Great Room.
The tree stands in the corner, a tower of lights and glass ornaments. The fireplace is cold, so I stack fresh logs and get a fire roaring before I turn my attention to the mantle.
I hang the stockings.
Gabriel.
Blair.
Gold thread glitters against the deep red velvet.
We never had anything like this growing up. My mother used socks—actual tube socks—pinned to the wall with thumbtacks. Usually, they stayed empty. Sometimes there was an orange or a candy bar if she’d had a good week at the diner.
I hated Christmas back then. I hated the reminder of everything we didn't have.
I step back, looking at the two stockings hanging against the stone.
Next year, there’ll be three.
The thought hits me hard. A child. A son or daughter who will never know what it’s like to look at an empty sock and wonder why they weren't good enough for Santa to visit them.
I leave the room before the memories can sour the mood and head for the kitchen.
I wash my hands and roll up my sleeves before I pull eggs, heavy cream, and thick-cut bacon out of the fridge. Then I grab a loaf of brioche bread.
People assume men with my net worth don't know how to boil water, let alone crack an egg. They think we have people for that. And usually, we do.
But I didn't start out with people. I started out with a single burner hot plate and a hunger that felt like it was eating me from the inside out.
I learned to cook because the alternative was starving. I learned to make French toast because stale bread was cheap and eggs were a source of protein my mom could afford.
It was survival then.
Now, it’s an act of service. I’ll always feed Blair and our children. I’ll always take care of them.
I whisk the eggs and cream, adding vanilla and cinnamon until the scent overpowers the lingering smell of woodsmoke from the other room.
Bacon hits the hot pan first, sizzling and spitting grease. Once it’s crisp, I dip the thick brioche slices into the batter and lay them on the griddle.
They hiss as they hit the heat.
I flip them, watching the sugar in the batter caramelize into a perfect golden brown.
My mind drifts to the woman upstairs.
She stood next to me last night while James Thornton tried to come at me with a knife. She didn't flinch when Xander broke a man’s wrist. She looked Ryder in the eye—the man she once thought she loved—and decimated him with a few well-chosen words.
She’s stronger than I ever gave her credit for.
"Gabriel?"
Her voice is scratchy, thick with sleep.
I turn.
Blair stands in the archway. She’s wearing one of my button-downs, the hem hitting her mid-thigh. Her hair is a disaster. Her eyes are puffy.
She looks edible.
"What are you doing?" she asks, rubbing her eyes.
"Making breakfast."
She blinks, looking at the stove, then at me. "You sent the staff home?"
"It's Christmas. I don't want strangers in my house today. I just want you."
She walks over. Her movements are a little stiff—her ribs are probably still a little achy—but she wraps her arms around my waist from behind, pressing her cheek against my back.
"You're cooking," she murmurs against my spine. "It smells amazing."
"Brioche French toast," I say, flipping another slice. "And bacon."
She squeezes me. "You're obsessed with me eating."
"I am."
“I’m gonna gain fifty pounds by the time this baby’s born.”
My dick twitches at the mental picture of her with even more curves to run my hands over. “I hope you do.”
I turn in her arms, trapping her against the counter. I look down at her. The bruise on her cheek is faint now, just a shadow. My gaze drops to her mouth, then lower, to where the shirt gaps open.
I can see the curve of her breast.
Lust hits me hard and fast, and my dick goes hard between one breath and the next. It shouldn't be this intense. I’ve had her every night for weeks. I fucked her on this very counter yesterday. But it’s never enough. It’s an addiction that only digs itself deeper into my soul with every hit.
"Merry Christmas, wife."
She smiles, and it lights up the dark corners of my soul. "Merry Christmas."
I kiss her.
She tastes like sleep and mint. I deepen it, my tongue sweeping into her mouth. I gently grind my hips into her, letting her feel exactly what she does to me.
My hand slides down her spine, gripping her ass through the thin fabric of my shirt. I squeeze, pulling her into my body.
She moans, pressing impossibly closer.
"I need you," she breathes against my lips.
"Not until you eat," I say, forcing myself to pull back before I lift her onto the counter and ruin breakfast. "Then presents. Then I’ll take you back to bed."
Her eyes darken, pupils blowing wide. "Promise?"
"Promise.”
We eat at the island, sitting side by side.
She moans around the first bite of French toast, and I have to grip my fork hard to keep from dragging her straight onto my dick and letting her finish breakfast while I’m inside her.
"My God," she says. "This is better than the chef’s."
"Don't tell him that. He has a fragile ego."
"Where’d you learn to do this?"
"I told you. Survival." I take a sip of coffee. "My mom used to buy the day-old bread because it was half off. French toast was the only way to make it edible. I got good at it."
She looks at me, her blue eyes soft. She reaches out, touching my hand.
"I'm glad you're not just surviving anymore."
"I haven't been surviving for a long time. But I wasn't living, either. Not until you."
It sounds like a line from a movie.
But it’s the truth.
We finish eating. I take the plates to the sink. I’ll wash them later. Or I’ll leave them for the staff tomorrow. I don’t care.
"Come here," I say, drying my hands. "I have something to show you."
I take her hand and lead her into the Great Room.
The fire is crackling, casting a warm glow over the space. The massive tree glitters with lights.
Blair stops when she sees the mantle.
Her breath hitches.
She walks closer, reaching out to touch the red velvet. Her fingers trace the gold letters of her name.
Blair.
"Stockings," she whispers.
"I know it’s something small," I tell her, coming up behind her and wrapping my arms around her waist. My hands settle on her stomach. "But we never had them when I was growing up. I want our children to have them, ones that’ll last their whole lives.”
She leans back against me. I can feel her trembling.
"They're beautiful."