Chapter 22 Gabe
GABE
Five days. One hundred and twenty hours of silence. My carefully constructed world crumbles at the edges.
I pull into the alley behind Amelia’s building, parking beside the service entrance.
My phone confirms she’s inside—the tracker I placed in her bag before she fled my apartment is blinking steadily on the screen.
A rational voice warns I should leave her alone, but rationality abandoned me somewhere around day three of her silence.
The service door lock is laughably simple. One twist of my tools and I’m inside, taking the freight elevator to her floor.
Amelia’s apartment door is just as easy to crack. I enter her apartment and move toward the gallery door, where she stands before a massive canvas, her back to me. Blood red and midnight black swirl across the surface in violent patterns. She doesn’t turn when I enter, though her shoulders stiffen.
“You promised you’d give me space.” Her voice floats back to me, hollow and distant.
“I lied.” The words escape through clenched teeth. “I tried, Amelia. Five fucking days.”
Her paint-stained fingers tighten around her brush. “Get out.”
Something snaps inside me. Five days of unanswered texts. Five days of fantasizing about her body beneath mine while slashing open boxes in my storeroom. Five days of sleepless rage.
I cross the room in three strides, gripping her wrist and spinning her to face me. Paint splatters across the polished concrete floor.
A discarded Valentine’s card is crumpled near her trash can—some generic message about finding the perfect match, probably from a well-meaning friend—it better not be from a man, or he’ll find himself in my collection.
How fitting that we have found each other after that manufactured holiday has passed.
What Amelia and I share isn’t chocolate hearts and red roses—it’s blood oaths and carved initials.
Our connection has escaped the Valentine’s clichés and formed something far more primal. Something real.
“Look at me.”
“Let go.” Her eyes burn into mine, unafraid despite the white-knuckled grip I have on her wrist.
“No.” I back her against the wall, pinning her there with my body. “No more running. No more silence.”
“You’re hurting me.”
I release her immediately, stumbling backward. My control, my precious control, evaporates like fog in sunlight. My hands shake as I drag them through my hair.
“I can’t give you space,” I growl, pacing like a caged animal. “I can’t eat. I can’t sleep. I can’t fucking breathe without you.”
“This is exactly why I needed time away from you.” Amelia rubs her wrist, red marks blooming where my fingers were. “Look at yourself, Gabe. This isn’t normal.”
“Normal?” Laughter tears from my throat, wild and unhinged. “We left normal behind the moment you found those files. The moment you didn’t run screaming to the police.”
I punch the wall beside her canvas, plaster dust raining down. The pain centers me for a split-second before chaos floods back in.
“I own you,” I whisper, voice dropping dangerously low. “Every inch. Every thought. Even your fear belongs to me now.”
I move closer to Amelia, my anger shifting to something else entirely. My fingers brush her cheek, tracing the delicate line of her jaw.
“You know we’re the same,” I whisper, lips hovering near hers. “You understand the darkness.”
She turns her face away. “Don’t.”
I ignore her protest, pressing my mouth to her neck, feeling her pulse quicken beneath my lips. My hands slide down her paint-spattered arms, leaving goosebumps in their wake.
“Remember how it felt?” I murmur against her skin. “When I had you begging on my desk? When you surrendered everything to me?”
For a moment, she softens, her body responding despite herself. Then she stiffens, shoving me back with surprising strength.
“This isn’t about sex, Gabe. This is about you killing people.”
Her rejection ignites something primal in me. I’ve tried reasoning. I’ve tried seduction. Now there’s only one option left.
“You need perspective,” I say, reaching into my pocket. “Time to truly see what we are together.”
The cloth covers her mouth before she can scream. Her eyes widen in shock, then fury, then fear as the chloroform takes effect. I catch her as she slumps forward, cradling her against my chest.
“I’ve got you,” I whisper to her unconscious form. “I’ll make you understand.”
I carry her to the freight elevator, thankful for the late hour and empty building.
The service entrance offers perfect cover as I emerge into the alley where my Audi waits.
I ease Amelia’s limp form into the passenger seat, buckling her in with careful precision.
Her head lolls against the window, copper hair cascading across her face.
I brush it back, tracing the curve of her cheek.
“You’ll understand soon,” I murmur, closing the door softly.
The highway stretches before us, empty at this hour. Amelia’s breathing remains steady beside me as city lights fade into darkness. My cabin sits ninety minutes north, nestled deep in woods where cell signals die, and visitors never come. The perfect place for revelation.
I glance at her sleeping form. “We’re almost home.”
Pine trees crowd the narrow dirt road as I pull up to the cabin. The headlights illuminate rough-hewn logs and darkened windows. This place knows my secrets—has absorbed the screams of those who deserved punishment. But never Amelia. Never her.
I lift her from the car, cradling her against my chest. Her weight feels right in my arms, like she belongs there. The cabin door creaks open to reveal spartan furnishings—a bed, a table, a woodstove. Necessities only.
I place her on the bed, remove her paint-spattered shoes, and arrange her limbs comfortably. She’ll wake soon. The chloroform was measured—enough to transport her, not enough to harm.
From my bag, I remove my tools and place them on the table in perfect alignment.
The leather mask first—my second face, the one that freed me to explore her darkest desires.
Next, ropes, coiled in precise circles of increasing diameter.
The blade I pressed against her throat while she came apart beneath me.
A collar that has never touched another’s neck.
Not tools of death. Tools of revelation.
I arrange candles throughout the room, their warm light catching the metal implements. The scene requires proper illumination. She needs to see clearly what we are together—artist and canvas, dominant and submissive, darkness recognizing darkness.
When she wakes, she’ll resist at first. But I’ve seen inside her, seen the patterns that match my own. Her art betrays her—violent splashes of color hiding darkness underneath. Just like my kills. Just like me.
“We’re mirrors, Amelia,” I whisper to her unconscious form. “You’ll see it soon. You’ll understand we’re the same.”
My phone vibrates in my pocket, breaking the spell of watching Amelia’s chest rise and fall in sleep. Adrian’s name flashes on the screen. Perfect timing as always.
“What?” I answer, keeping my voice low.
“Well, hello to you, too, sunshine.” Adrian’s smooth tone grates against my raw nerves. “More news on Reynolds. Apparently, the man is missing meetings. Imagine that.”
“Tragic.” I move to the window, watching shadows lengthen across the forest floor. “I’m sure his mistress in Tampa will file a missing person’s report any day now.”
“Indeed.” Adrian pauses. “I stopped by The Blue Room. You weren’t there. Or at your apartment.”
The accusation in his tone makes my jaw clench. “I’m handling something.”
“Handling what exactly? You sound... off.”
I laugh, the sound hollow even to my own ears. “Just taking care of our Amelia situation.”
Silence stretches between us. Then: “Gabe. Where are you? Where is she?”
“Somewhere private. Somewhere we can really talk.”
“Jesus Christ.” His voice drops to a harsh whisper. “Tell me you didn’t.”
“She needs to understand. Five fucking days of silence, Adrian.”
“You can’t do this.” The cool composure in his voice fractures. “If anything happens to Amelia, Maya will never forgive me. Never. We had an agreement about collateral damage.”
“Collateral damage?” I snarl, watching Amelia stir slightly on the bed. “She’s not collateral. She’s mine.”
“Listen to yourself. You’re spiraling.” Adrian’s voice turns uncharacteristically urgent. “This isn’t you. This isn’t how we operate.”
“You don’t get to dictate how I handle this.”
“Let me come to you. We’ll figure this out together.”
I press my forehead against the cool glass of the window. “Better stay away. I know what I’m doing.”
“Gabe—”
I end the call, switching my phone to silent before turning back toward the bed where Amelia is beginning to stir. Time for me to make her understand.