Chapter 13 #2
His eyes flick past me to Gemma, and his features twist with contempt.
"Is this your new protector, Gem? Found yourself another man to hide behind?
" He looks me up and down, takes in the leather vest I'm wearing, the tattoos visible on my forearms. "Let me guess.
You've got her convinced you're different from me.
That you're going to treat her right." He laughs, a harsh sound that scrapes against my nerves.
"I know what men like you want from women like her.
The broken ones are always the easiest, aren't they?
So grateful for any scrap of attention."
Behind me, I hear Gemma's sharp intake of breath. The words are designed to wound, to make her doubt herself, to poison whatever she's built since leaving him.
I don't rise to the bait.
"The difference between you and me," I say, "is that she can walk away from me anytime she wants. Could she say that about you?"
Craig's face goes red. "You don't know anything about our relationship."
"I know she has scars she hasn't shown me yet.
I know she flinches when someone moves too fast behind her.
I know she spent four years learning to make herself small so you wouldn't notice her.
" I take a step closer to him, close enough that he has to tilt his head back to meet my eyes.
"I know exactly what kind of man you are.
And I know you're never going to touch her again. "
For a moment, I think he's going to swing at me. Part of me hopes he will. It would make everything simpler, give me a reason to do what I've been wanting to do since I first heard his name.
But Craig is a coward at heart. Guys like him always are. He backs away, hands raised in mock surrender.
"Fine. Whatever. She's not worth the trouble anyway." He looks past me at Gemma one more time. "You'll come crawling back eventually. They always do."
"No," Gemma says, and her voice is stronger than I've ever heard it. "I won't."
Blue and red lights flash at the edge of my vision. A patrol car pulls into the parking lot, and two officers step out. Shaw walks over to meet them, badge in hand, and I hear him explaining the situation in low, professional tones.
Craig's expression shifts from contempt to alarm. "What the hell is this?"
"That would be the police. Guess what happens when you violate a restraining order and put your hands on someone?"
"You set me up." His voice rises, incredulous. "You fucking set me up."
"You set yourself up. All we did was give you the opportunity."
Gemma grins—nothing forced or unsure, but a genuine fuck-you-sucker grin. "Yeah, I did."
The officers approach, and Shaw handles the handoff with practiced efficiency. Tate appears from wherever he's been monitoring, tablet in hand, and passes it to one of the officers.
"Audio and video of the entire encounter," he says. "Including the part where he admits to isolating her, monitoring her communications, and forcing her to quit her job. And the assault."
The officer's eyebrows rise as he scrolls through the footage. "This'll make the DA's day."
Craig protests, demands to speak to a lawyer, insists this is all a misunderstanding. The officers are polite but firm as they guide him toward the patrol car, reading him his rights.
I don't watch him go. I turn back to Gemma instead.
She's still sitting at the table, but there's nothing defeated about her posture. Her eyes are bright, her chin lifted, watching the patrol car pull away with the satisfaction of someone who just won a war.
I crouch down beside her chair. "You did it."
The grin hasn't faded. "He's actually gone. And if he ever comes back—"
"He'll answer to the Brotherhood." I take her hands in mine. "But he's not coming back. Shaw's going to make sure of that."
She squeezes my fingers, and I see certainty settle in her expression. The knowledge that she's not alone anymore, and she never has to be again.
She looks at me then, really looks at me, and I see the emotions churning behind her eyes. Relief, anger, grief, triumph, all fighting for dominance.
"I need to give a statement," she says.
"I know. I'll be right here the whole time."
The next few hours are a blur of paperwork and questions.
A detective arrives to take our statements, and Gemma recounts the conversation with a clarity that impresses everyone listening.
She doesn't minimize or equivocate. She tells the truth, all of it, and I watch the detective's expression shift from professional neutrality to quiet outrage on her behalf.
Cole hovers nearby, torn between wanting to comfort his sister and wanting to drive to the police station and finish what we started.
Shaw keeps him occupied with logistics, redirecting his protective energy into something productive.
Tate disappears at some point, probably to coordinate with his contacts and make sure Craig's booking goes smoothly.
By the time we're finished, the sun is setting over the harbor, painting the water in shades of orange and pink. Gemma stands at the railing where she sat for lunch, staring out at the boats bobbing gently in their slips.
I come up beside her and rest my hands on the railing. "Ready to go home?"
She nods, but doesn't move. "It doesn't feel real yet. Like I'm going to wake up tomorrow and find out this was all a dream."
"It's real. I promise."
She turns to face me, and for the first time since Craig appeared, I see the cracks in her composure. The control she's been holding onto all day is starting to slip.
"Take me home," she whispers. "Please."
The drive back to my place is silent. Gemma sits in the passenger seat with her head against the window, watching the scenery pass without really seeing it. I don't try to fill the silence with words. Some things don't need to be talked through; they need to be felt.
Inside the house, she makes it as far as the living room before she stops. Just stops, like her body has decided it's done carrying her through this day.
"Gemma?"
She turns to face me, and the tears come all at once.
The sob that tears out of her is deep and wrenching, nothing like the controlled woman who faced down her abuser three hours ago. Her knees buckle, and I catch her before she hits the ground, lowering us both to the floor and pulling her against my chest.
"Let it out," I murmur against her hair. "I've got you. Let it all out."
She cries like she's been holding it in for years.
Maybe she has. The tears soak through my shirt, and her whole body shakes with the force of her grief.
Not grief for Craig, for the marriage that ended.
Grief for the woman she was before him, for the years she lost, for the version of herself she had to bury just to survive.
I hold her through all of it. I don't try to fix it or make it better or offer platitudes about how everything will be okay. I just stay steady and present, letting her know she's not alone anymore.
Eventually, the sobs taper off into shuddering breaths. She stays curled against me, her fingers twisted in the fabric of my shirt.
"I'm sorry," she whispers.
"Don't be. You've earned every one of those tears."
"I just kept thinking about all the times I almost left. All the times I talked myself out of it, convinced myself it wasn't that bad, that I was overreacting." She pulls back to look at me, her face tear-streaked and swollen. "What if I'd left sooner? What if I'd been braver?"
"You were brave enough to leave when it mattered. That's what counts."
"It feels like I wasted so much time."
"Then don't waste any more." I cup her face in my hands, wiping away the tears with my thumbs. "You're free now. Whatever you want to do with that freedom, I'll support you. But don't spend another minute grieving for the time you lost. Spend it building the life you want."
She stares at me for a long moment, and I watch the grief give way to resolve.
"It's over," she says, and her voice is steady. "It's actually over."
"Yeah, sweetheart. It is."
She leans into me, and I wrap my arms around her again, holding her close. Outside, the last light of sunset fades into darkness.
Tomorrow, there will be more logistics to handle. Court dates and legal proceedings, therapy appointments and difficult conversations. The road ahead isn't going to be easy.
But tonight, I don't think about any of that. I just hold her in the dark, feeling her breath slow against my chest, and let myself believe we might actually get to keep this.
Somewhere in the harbor, a boat horn sounds. Gemma stirs against me.
"Will?" Her voice is thick with exhaustion. "What happens now?"
I press a kiss to her hair. "Whatever we want."