Chapter 9 Gabriel
Gabriel
Sydney's arms cross protectively in front of her torso, and she lifts her chin. “I’m your prisoner. Either way.”
For thirty-seven days, I slept only when my body forced me to and used every resource I had to track her down, followed every lead, called in every favor, threatened anyone who got in my way.
Then for another twenty-four days, I never left her side for more than a few minutes at a time.
She feels like smoke on a windy day, destined to drift away from me.
When she became aware of her surroundings, she began refusing my help with most things. I’ve tried to frame it as a good thing. Told myself it was her need for independence asserting itself. But it was never about “doing things herself.”
Sydney’s bones push against her skin as she sits, wild and fragile, in a bed we don’t share. She’s afraid. Of me.
The thought never ceases to pull all the air from my lungs.
“You’re free here. This is our vacation home.” I will her to understand.
“Then why do you . . . watch me . . . every m-minute?”
I hesitate. Learning that her refusal of food and drink wasn’t anchored in a desire to self-harm changes things.
Sydney, who used to seek me out to put her feet in my lap while she scrolled on her phone—the woman who once said she couldn’t sleep without her hand on my chest—needs space to feel safe.
I reach for the smartwatch on the nightstand. She observes me with glittering suspicion in her dark eyes as I lift her wrist, strap the device around too-prominent bones, and resist the almost overwhelming temptation to pull her into my arms.
“I stayed with you in case you needed me. If you’re comfortable with me leaving you alone, I’ll go get some work done. I know you’ve been getting around by yourself, but you can tap the screen and press this contact to call me if you want me to come back.”
“Don’t want it.”
I hold her gaze. “I’ll never make you do anything unless it’s life or death. Take it off if you like.”
Her lip curls in disgust. “Don’t need you. Don’t want you.”
Her words are knives that stab and slice, but I force my expression to remain impassive. I have no business having hurt feelings when my wife is recovering from torture. She doesn’t know me. Of course she doesn’t want me.
I’ve been careful and as gentle as possible every moment since I lifted her into my arms in that warehouse. Maybe she doesn’t recognize this version of me. One thing we’ve always been good at is pushing each other’s buttons.
Maybe pissing her off is worth a shot. I’d rather see her feisty than afraid.
“If you’re hungry, get off your ass and go raid the kitchen.
It’s your house. You have clothing in the closet and a shower in the bathroom to deal with your own stink.
Nothing here is off-limits. It’s yours. If you want help from me or the staff, then ask for it.
I’ll give it gladly, but I’m not your jailer.
I’m your husband. If you’re medically or mentally incompetent, it’s my duty to take care of you.
If you don’t want me to do those things for you, then do them yourself. ”
Sydney watches me with hot, intelligent, assessing eyes. I force myself to head for the door.
“Where are you g-going?” she calls.
“I’ll be in the home office, then I’m going outside to get some fresh air. Join me if you like. Or don’t. It’s up to you.” I keep my tone neutral as I slide open the door to our stone patio outside and allow the warm ocean breeze to ruffle the curtains.
Then I turn and walk into the hallway, leaving the bedroom door open behind me. She’s now in a wide-open space. The house and grounds are hers to explore. They always were, but maybe she’ll be willing to try if I’m not there watching over her.
Leaving her feels like a march to the guillotine. I do it, one quiet footfall at a time.
I reach the study without turning back and ruining my grand exit. The room is more of a home library with two walls of bookshelves and comfortable seating, including the oversized green chair Sydney and I used to curl up in together to read.
I brought the Helena Newbury romantic suspense novel she was in the middle of when she was taken. She didn’t look at it in the bedroom, so I had the staff bring it in here. It sits on the table beside the chair waiting for her to come back to it . . . for her to come back to herself.
I frown and pick it up, turning it over to read the back cover.
The book, titled Lying and Kissing, is a romance about an undercover government agent who falls in love with the subject of her investigation.
I hadn’t stopped to wonder if what she’s been through would change her reading preferences.
Will she still like books with danger and suspense, or will they feel too close to home?
I slide the novel onto one of the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves that line two of the walls. Behind me, a tinted glass wall with sliding doors leads to a wraparound deck.
Lowering myself into the leather office chair, I fire up the computer on my desk. For the next two hours, I dive into the emails and reports waiting for me, checking in with my executive assistant and the people who’ve stepped into my shoes for these last months.
Sweat trickles down my temple, despite the comfortable temperature. I wipe it away and stay on task, the work a welcome distraction.
I can give her a little more time. If I haven’t seen or heard from her by noon, then I’ll have lunch as a reason to check on her.
I remain at my desk, unsure whether the lack of sound from our bedroom is a bad thing or not. She may not be in that room at all. For all I know, she left the house and took a walk outside.
“And that’s okay. There’s security here. They won’t let her out of the gates without telling me and following her. She’s fine,” I mutter to myself, even as I snatch a ballpoint pen off my desk and click it over and over and over again.
I want a drink. Eight years sober, and I can picture it clear as day.
Decanting the whiskey. The rich amber color.
The sharp bite of scent. Pouring it over ice that crackles when the room temperature liquid hits it.
Lifting the Glencairn as condensation beads on the surface of the glass.
The warmth of it. The comfort. The relief.
I’d choose one with a nice oaky flavor profile.
The old me would have brought it to his lips, leaned back in this chair, and lost track of every fucking thing.
When my phone flashes an incoming video call from my brother, I rub my chest through my shirt and pick up the phone with my other hand. “Good timing.”
Henry, standing in his kitchen with his infant son sleeping in the cradle of his arm, glances down at my hand still pressed to my heart. Frowning, he lifts his gaze to mine. “That bad?”
“I’m being melodramatic.”
“I’m not sure that’s the word I’d use.”
I fake a grin. “Come on. I live for that shit.”
“Gabriel—”
“She started eating again this morning,” I say, all about the cheerful optimism. So what if this mask is a thin veneer with a hundred cracks in it? From a distance, he’ll never notice. No one but Sydney ever has.
My brother’s breath of relief whooshes through the speaker. Henry shifts Ian into a vertical position against his chest. “And you’re at your desk. This is good news.”
His tone often has a slightly flat affect, but I know him well enough to recognize that he’s sincere.
I shift in my chair. “She wanted some space.”
“You both probably need some,” he says.
I shrug noncommittally.
“Has she remembered anything useful yet?”
He’s always blunt, but his question takes a wrecking ball to my carefully constructed facade. “She doesn’t remember my name, Henry. No matter how many times I tell it to her. Swallowing down some calories is as useful as I need her to be.”
Henry watches me with concern written in his eyes.
He probably didn’t intend to sound callous, but it took him years to accept Sydney wasn’t a threat.
I’d told her too many of our secrets, and she’d needed money.
In his mind, she was a storm gathering on the horizon.
The blackmail—excuse me—bribe, didn’t help.
Henry clears his throat. “It would make things easier if—”
“You heard what Dr. Granthy said. Anything that happened while she was drugged isn’t coming back,” I remind him.
“I’m aware, but I doubt Markov kept her dosed the entire time.
There’s a chance he allowed it to wear off, if only because it would have been inconvenient, if not impossible, to never leave her for more than eight hours at a time.
He had a job and a life he had to maintain.
If you bring her back to New York, we could use her to piece together what happened at the lab.
Her presence could draw out whoever Markov had on the inside that allowed him to penetrate Sydney’s security. ”
“No one is using my wife for anything, let alone bait. There are ways to figure out how someone managed to get to her that don’t involve putting her back in the line of fire,” I say coldly.
Henry lifts his glasses with one hand and rubs the bridge of his freckled nose, then adjusts them back into place.
“Of course, you’re right. It’s unfortunate you had to kill Markov before we had the opportunity to interrogate him.
We know why he took her. We don’t know how or why he kept her alive for so long.
I don’t like those kinds of loose ends.”
Ian snuffles adorably into his father’s shoulder.
“At what age will you decide it’s no longer appropriate to discuss murder and torture in front of your kid?”
Henry raises an eyebrow. “Since my son is currently asleep and gives no indication of having learned the English language, the answer is not eight weeks.”
I squeeze the tight muscles in the back of my neck. “But, you’ll stop soon, right? You’ll protect Ian from growing up with all this shit living in his head.”
Henry stiffens. He’s always had an overdeveloped need for justice. He got that drive from Dad who is even more fanatical about it than he is.
“It was our training that kept us alive that night when we were kids,” Henry says.
I can’t argue with the truth, but Bronwyn is doing it right with their kids. “It’s our job to protect the children, even from their fears. It’s not their job to protect themselves. No kid should grow up carrying that weight. Safety measures, yes. Training, but not . . .” I shake my head.
“Not that,” he murmurs in agreement. “I suppose if Ian inherited his mother’s talent for languages, there’s no telling when he’ll figure out what we’re saying. It would be best to begin now.”
I nod.
He pauses. “You look rough, Gabriel. You have to take care of yourself. What do you need to get through this?”
My hand moves back to my chest before I catch myself and drop it. “I appreciate the concern, but I’m fine.”
“You didn’t even make a masturbation joke when I said ‘take care of yourself.’ You’re clearly not functioning at optimal levels,” Henry says dryly.
I scrub my palm over my eye. “Only you would refer to my physical and mental health as ‘optimal levels.’ I’m thirty-three, not thirteen.”
“As if your age ever stopped you from making crass jokes that no one but you finds funny.”
“My wife thinks I’m hilarious.” Did. She did think that. No longer. “Just tell me what’s happening before I reach through this phone and throttle you,” I say tiredly.
Henry turns his body to the side and covers Ian’s ear. “We no longer speak of these things in front of children.”
“Henry.” That’s it. Just his name, but in a tone so exhausted he relents.
He murmurs briefly, then passes Ian off to his wife Franki, who gives me a sweet little finger wave. I force a close-lipped smile.
Then she’s gone, and Henry runs a hand through his light brown hair. “They’re calling this open and shut. According to the FBI, Nikolai Markov had a grudge against us with revenge as the motive. Period. End of story. They believe he worked alone.”
“That’s bullshit.” I sneer. “How did he get close to her in the first place? What does any of it have to do with Sydney’s lab?”
“If you hadn’t killed Markov, we could have made him answer those questions. Why did he keep Sydney alive for so long, rather than killing her outright? If it were me, I’d have killed her and sent you the body immediately, not waited more than a month,” Henry muses.
A clatter sounds from the open doorway, and I turn with a jerk to find Sydney watching me. My heart lifts with elation that she came to find me, then plummets when I realize what she heard. “Damn.”