Chapter 26 Gabriel #2
I rub the nape of her neck, attempting to soothe her.
“You’re psyching yourself out again. You would never deliberately betray me or our family.
” God knows she had ample opportunity when we met.
She had the ammunition and hated me. If she didn’t do it then, the idea of it happening years later, after she loved me, is absurd.
“If I’d been there, I’d have begged you to do anything it took to stay alive.
No matter what, it wasn’t a mistake or a betrayal. It was survival, and I approve.”
“We d-don’t know that.”
“I do.” I have to break through her anxiety. “You asked me once if I’d still love you if you were a worm.”
She leans backward and frowns at my abrupt change of topic. “I did what?”
“It was one of those goofy internet things. You expected me to say something funny in response. But that question isn’t about being a worm.
The real question is ‘Would you still love me if I were helpless and in need and unable to give anything back in return.’ This feels like the same sort of hypothetical.
You’re not some corporate spy or secret villain, but if you were, I’ve still got your back. ”
Her expressive face works through a battery of emotions, from doubt to hope, until, finally, she lands on expectancy. “Well?”
“Well, what?”
“What did you say when I asked about being a worm?”
“Oh, that.”
She pokes me in the rib cage, and I squirm away.
“Paraphrasing, I said”—I clear my throat and channel my father’s courtroom tone when he gives a closing argument—“if you were transformed into a worm, I’d keep you in a jewel-encrusted box with the most luxurious dirt available.
I’d feed you worm-food delicacies hand-prepared by a gardener whose sole purpose was the creation of your cuisine.
I’d carry you around with me everywhere I went, and your box would rest on a pillow beside my head at night.
People would say, ‘What’s in the box, Gabriel?
’ and I’d regale them with stories of my incredible worm wife and tell them, ‘the love of my life is in this box.’ I would travel vast oceans and arid deserts, devoting the entirety of my existence to the pursuit of a cure.
And, finally, when you stood again by my side, Vengeance would become my middle name.
I would seek out and destroy the villain who dared to transform my love into a worm and smite the ever-loving fuck out of him with your name falling from my lips so that, as he passed through the portal of hell, he did so knowing he’d burn for eternity for his trespasses against you. ”
She covers her smile. “Okay, that’s funny.”
“The only funny part is that you think I’m kidding.”
She moves even closer, her breasts brushing against me, and leans up to press her lips to mine.
I revel in the feel and taste of her. My hands drift, and I skim the feminine slope of hips that are gaining back some of the softness she lost. Hands fisted in my shirt, she steps backward toward our bed, dragging me with her.
In one smooth motion, I lift her by the ass and carry her the rest of the way, then lower her to the mattress and settle myself into the V of her spread thighs, a forearm supporting my weight. Never taking my mouth from hers, I slide a hand beneath her T-shirt. The feel of her skin is heaven.
She presses up against me, tunnels her fingers into my hair. The moment her lips met mine, all the blood shot straight to my dick, but somewhere in the recesses of my brain alarms blare: Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Yes, you idiot, that’s what I’m trying to do.
Wrong “fuck.” You have to tell her.
Sydney and I have never had good timing. We’ve always crashed into each other, inevitable as the waves hitting the lava rock breakers. We wreck each other. Shape each other. She’s the promise of a peaceful shore just out of reach, but first, always, we collide.
I stop moving, lift my head to look down into her confused mahogany eyes, take a breath, and drag the words straight from my chest. “I wasn’t just partying. You didn’t trust me in the past because I’m a recovering alcoholic.”
Her expression shutters. “What?”
I ease to the side, and we both sit up. “I destroyed friendships. Let down people who needed me. Lied to people I cared about. Hurt you. Hurt myself. But I’ve been sober for eight years.”
She huffs out a disbelieving laugh and covers her eyes. “Oh my God.”
“I kept waiting for you to look me up online. God knows there are plenty of old photos on there of me acting the fool. But you didn’t. Granthy said to let you lead with your memories, and I thought, if you remembered loving me first—”
She lowers her hands, and the bleakness in her eyes stops the words in my mouth and sends my heart plummeting.
“You think this is about love? I didn’t make my rules because I couldn’t love an alcoholic,” she says.
I swallow down my protests.
“I’d have done a-anything to save my dad. I lied to stay with him. Let myself starve. Let myself freeze and bleed. I lived in fear. For love.”
My chest aches for the child she was and the woman who grew up scarred by a man I could have become. “I never asked you to save me. I never will. I don’t want your sacrifice. I want to make your life better. I want to love you,” I say desperately.
“Did I know you then? When you were like that?”
I squeeze my eyes closed before I answer. “Yes.”
She eases off the bed and backs away from me. “How did you get me to give you a chance?”
“Forced proximity,” I admit.
“What does that mean?” she says in a frustrated voice.
I tug on my hair. This is veering into dangerous territory. “You risk migraines, depression, or a psychotic break if you push, Gabriel. She may never recover from another catatonic state.” Granthy’s warning is always in my mind.
“Say it,” she snaps.
“You know you worked for my father, and I was . . . around. A lot.”
“Painting walls baby blue.”
Among other things. “Yes.”
Lines of stress bracket her mouth. “It took seven years for me to believe it was s-sticking. That’s why we’ve only been married for a year,” she guesses.
I shake my head. “You were never convinced.” Her past, and mine, wore too many ruts in the road for us to ever have a smooth ride.
“Was I awful to you? Before we got together?” she asks, her tone unexpectedly urgent.
I shake my head. “You were protecting yourself, not intentionally cruel. And I was willing to wait the rest of my life for you. My love doesn’t have conditions.”
Her eyes widen, then she scowls. “Get some.”
“What?”
She levels me with a look that cuts straight through me.
“Get conditions.” Tears flood her eyes. “My God, you deserve them. Look at how far you’ve come.
You d-deserve kindness. If you start drinking again, I’m gone.
I can’t change that. I w-won’t live with an active alcoholic ever again.
I’ll take a h-heart shattered on stone before I’ll let myself be worn down inches at a time by a life with no p-peace or security or respect. ”
“I know,” I say.
“Those are my boundaries. But if I cross yours, you need to push me back over the line or leave—”
“Sydney—”
“No. You say you’re glad I did anything to survive? That’s what I’m asking from you. If I hurt you again or make it harder for you to stay sober, choose yourself first. Some days, I’m barely holding on to reality. If I go under, don’t you dare drown with me. I’ll never forgive either of us.”