Chapter 26
GABE
Iwake to sunlight streaming through the cabin windows and Amelia’s warm body curled against mine.
Her breathing is deep and steady; her face relaxed in sleep.
Last night changed something between us—revealed layers within me that I hadn’t known existed.
I brush a strand of hair from her face, memorizing how her lashes fan against her cheeks.
She stirs as I slip from bed, murmuring something unintelligible before settling back into the pillows.
In the kitchen, I pull eggs and bacon from the refrigerator, moving quietly through the familiar space.
The normality of the moment strikes me as absurd—twenty-four hours ago, I was chasing her through these woods.
The coffee maker gurgles as I whisk eggs with a splash of cream. Muscle memory takes over, my hands working through the motions while my mind replays last night—her surrender in the forest, her softening in the bathtub, the way she held me after. I can’t remember the last time someone saw me break.
“Something smells amazing.”
I turn to find Amelia leaning against the doorframe, my T-shirt hanging off one shoulder. Her hair is tousled, eyes still heavy with sleep. The sight of her like this—barefoot in my kitchen, wearing my clothes—ignites something primal and possessive in my chest.
“Hungry?”
She nods, padding across the hardwood. When she reaches for a mug from the cabinet, her shirt rides up, revealing the curve of her ass and the bruises my fingers left on her thighs. My cock stiffens instantly at the reminder.
“Stop looking at me like that while you’re holding a spatula,” she smirks, pouring coffee.
“Like what?” I slide the eggs onto plates.
“Like you’re deciding whether to feed me or fuck me on the counter.”
I set the spatula down. “Who says I can’t do both?”
Her eyes darken as she takes a sip of coffee, watching me over the rim. “Breakfast first. I need my strength.”
We eat in silence, the only sounds the clink of forks against ceramic and the occasional sip of coffee.
Amelia devours her food with surprising hunger, and I find myself watching her hands—the same hands that create such visceral art now cutting bacon into equal pieces.
The bruises on her wrists from our forest encounter have darkened overnight.
When she finishes, I take our plates to the sink and return with my laptop. Something’s been gnawing at me since she first mentioned Walsh’s name—the gallery owner who blacklisted her after she rejected his advances. The way her voice tightened when she spoke of him.
“I want to show you something.” I open a folder labeled GW and turn the screen toward her.
Her brow furrows as she recognizes the subject of the surveillance photos—Gregory Walsh entering his gallery with young female artists, time stamps indicating late hours. Video clips show him touching them inappropriately, offering champagne, and locking doors.
“You’ve been watching him?” Her voice is barely audible.
I scroll to the documentation of financial records showing how he’s leveraged his position to extort sexual favors for gallery placement. Then, to the testimonial transcripts—six women who described similar patterns of predation but were silenced with threats of industry blacklisting.
“Jesus.” Amelia pushes the laptop away, her face pale. “I knew he was a creep, but this is...” She swallows hard. “When he came onto me at the Winterfest show, I knew there had to be more.”
“It’s systematic,” I explain, clicking through more evidence. “He targets emerging female artists, creates dependency, then exploits them. Those who refuse get blacklisted, like you.”
The color rises in her cheeks as she looks up from the screen. “Why are you showing me this?”
I close the laptop, studying her face. The question hangs between us, loaded with implications neither of us has voiced.
“Why show me this?” Amelia repeats, her voice stronger now.
I rise from the table and cross to a locked cabinet in the corner of the cabin’s main room. The key feels heavy between my fingers as I unlock it, revealing the carefully organized interior.
“Because I want you to understand what I offer the world.” I step aside, giving her a full view of my collection. “And what I could offer you.”
Her breath hitches as she approaches. Inside are my specialized tools—scalpels with handcrafted handles, preservation chemicals in labeled bottles, and surgical-grade instruments arranged by purpose. Not the theatrical implements we used in bed, but the real tools of my true craft.
“Walsh has hurt seventeen women that I’ve documented. Probably more.” I stand behind her, close enough to feel her heat but not touching. “He’ll continue unless someone stops him.”
Amelia runs her fingertip along the edge of the cabinet, not quite touching the contents. “Are you asking my permission?”
“I’m offering you a choice.”
Her eyes meet mine in the reflection of the small mirror mounted inside the cabinet door.
“What kind of choice?” Her voice is barely a whisper.
“You could walk away. Forget what you’ve seen.” I touch her shoulder lightly. “Or you could choose how he faces justice.”
Amelia turns, her face inches from mine. “You mean I decide if he lives or dies?”
“No. He doesn’t deserve to continue breathing.” My voice hardens. “But you could... participate.”
The word hangs between us. A flush spreads across her cheeks.
She steps back to the cabinet, examining a particularly elegant scalpel with an ebony handle. Her fingers hover over it reverently.
“I’ve dreamed about him suffering.” The confession spills from her lips, surprising us both. “Actual dreams where I...” She picks up the scalpel, testing its weight. “Is that terrible?”
“It’s honest.”
She studies the blade, turning it to catch the light. “I always thought I was a good person.”
“You are.” I move closer. “Good people recognize injustice most clearly.”
Amelia’s reflection stares back at her, the scalpel glinting in her hand. Her eyes widen with the weight of her own revelation—not horror at my suggestion, but recognition of the darkness she’s always carried.
Amelia’s fingers tighten around the scalpel. “I want him to pay for what he did. To me. To those other women.” Her voice grows stronger with each word. “I want to watch him realize who’s taking everything from him.”
My breath catches. The cold, calculated part of me—the part that meticulously plans each kill—falters at the sight of her transformation.
Her eyes darken to midnight pools, her jaw set with newfound purpose.
The morning light streaming through the windows catches the blade in her hand, casting dangerous reflections across her face.
“I want to make him suffer, Gabe.”
Blood rushes to my cock so fast I feel dizzy with it. All these years of hunting, and only Adrian has ever understood. I never believed a woman like her could ever witness my darkness and see beauty instead of monstrosity. Until her.
“Say it again,” I growl, stepping closer.
She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t retreat. Instead, she lifts her chin, eyes locked with mine. “I want to make Gregory Walsh pay for every woman he’s hurt.” She presses the flat of the blade against my chest. “I want to help you take him apart.”
Something snaps inside me. I knock the scalpel from her hand, hearing it clatter against the hardwood as I grab her face between my palms. My mouth crashes down on hers, no gentleness, no restraint. Just raw, animal hunger.
Amelia responds instantly, her teeth nipping at my bottom lip hard enough to draw blood.
The coppery taste floods my mouth as I back her against the cabinet, rattling the surgical tools inside.
My hands tangle in her hair, yanking her head back to expose her throat.
I bite the tender flesh beneath her jaw, marking her.
She claws at my shoulders, moaning into my open mouth as I press my hardness against her stomach. The savage impulse to claim her completely overwhelms everything else.
I slam Amelia against the wall, pinning her wrists above her head with one hand. My other hand tears the T-shirt up her body, exposing her completely. Her pupils are blown wide with lust as I crush my mouth against hers, tasting blood where I’ve already split her lip.
She wraps her legs around my waist as I drive into her without preamble, her wetness taking me to the hilt in one brutal thrust. The cabinet rattles beside us with each impact of our bodies.
“Tell me how we’ll do it,” she pants against my mouth, nails digging crescents into my shoulders. “How will we kill Walsh?”
My cock pulses inside her at the question. I bite down on her neck, feeling her clench around me.
“I’ll bring him to the room beneath the club,” I growl, thrusting harder. “Tie him to the table where his precious artists posed for him.”
Amelia’s head falls back, a moan tearing from her throat. “Yes. Make him see me. Make him know it’s me.”
I spin her around, bending her over the kitchen table. She spreads her legs wider, offering herself completely as I drive back into her.
“I’ll cut his clothes away piece by piece.” My palm cracks across her ass, leaving a perfect red handprint. “For every artist he destroyed—a cut for each one.”
Her body trembles beneath mine. “Deeper. Harder.”
I comply, pulling her hair back so sharply that tears spring to her eyes. “You want his blood, don’t you? Want to watch it flow while he begs?”
“God, yes,” she whimpers, pushing back against me frantically.
I reach for the knife block on the counter and pull out a small blade. I hold it where she can see it, pressing the flat edge against her breast.
“You want me to make you bloody, too? Mark you like he’ll be marked?”
She freezes for a heartbeat, then whispers, “Do it.”
The cool metal of the blade kisses her skin as I trace it lightly over the curve where her shoulder meets her neck.
I’m unraveling, consumed by a hunger I’ve never felt before.
My cock is buried deep inside her, but it isn’t enough.
I need more, need to mark her, claim her in ways that will never fade.
“You want this?” I press just enough to dimple her skin without breaking it.
“Yes,” she pants, fingers gripping the edge of the table. “Make me bleed for you.”
I draw the blade across her shoulder in one swift motion, shallow enough to leave only a thin crimson line. Her body bucks beneath me, a moan tearing from her throat as her pussy clenches around my cock.
“Fuck,” I growl, watching the blood bead along the cut.
I lean forward, my chest against her back, and drag my tongue along the wound. The metallic tang of her blood explodes across my senses. My hips snap forward involuntarily, driving deeper.
“You taste fucking incredible,” I groan against her skin. “Better than any kill. Sweeter.”
Her breathing hitches as I continue thrusting, the knife still held firmly in my right hand. I make another small cut at the top of her spine, lapping at the blood while she writhes beneath me.
“Gabe,” she gasps, turning her head to meet my eyes. What I see there isn’t fear—it’s hunger that matches my own. “Carve your initials on me. Make me yours.”
The words trigger a primal response I can’t control. My hand is steady as I press the tip of the blade against the smooth skin of her left shoulder blade.
“Hold still,” I command, voice barely recognizable.
I carve a G into her flesh, not deep but clear enough to leave a permanent mark. Blood trickles down her back as I follow with D below it.
Amelia screams—not in pain but ecstasy. Her body shudders violently around my cock as she comes, her orgasm squeezing me so tightly I lose all control. I thrust savagely, emptying myself deep inside her with a roar that tears from my chest.
“Mine,” I growl through clenched teeth, pulsing inside her. “Fucking mine.”