30. Audra
The next morning…
I wake up with my heart racing. Like something is still chasing me.
For a few seconds, I don't know where I am.
The dream lingers, sticky and wrong. I woke up twice during the night.
Once, convinced I heard a motorcycle outside.
The second time, Pete was standing at the foot of the bed, covered in blood, pointing at me with his bloody stumps of hands, accusing me with eyes that didn't belong to him anymore.
Looking at me like I should have done something differently. Like I should have saved him.
Every night, it's the same thing. That's why I left the blackout curtains open in the center before going to sleep. Just enough for a sliver of light to sneak through. Complete darkness has never been my friend. Not after Razor. Not after the years I spent jumping at shadows and engine noises.
The first rays of morning sun now cut through the gap and paint a pale stripe across the room.
It helps. Still, the feeling of being chased doesn't fade.
It clings. I press my palm against my chest to try to steady my breathing.
Razor's face is the last thing I remember.
Not how he looked back then, but how he would look now if he ever found me.
I squeeze my eyes shut. No. I'm not doing this. Not today.
I force myself upright, swinging my legs over the side of the bed, and my bare feet hit the cold floor, grounding me to the here and now. But the remnants of the dream are hard to shake, because now, like then, I'm hiding. I hate that. It explains the dream, too.
I decide a shower will do me good. After, I apply my makeup carefully. It's been days since I paid any attention to my appearance. '
'I stare at my reflection in the mirror, narrow my eyes, and try to figure out if I recognize the person staring back at me.
After I'm dressed, I enter the main penthouse area to find not only Gabe, but Mom sitting around the counter, eating breakfast. She never gets up this early.
"Good morning." I greet, going straight for the coffee maker.
"Come, sit," Gabe invites, padding the chair next to him.
"I'm good," I decline, blowing on the coffee.
The last thing I need is to be close to him again. I understand all too well what that man does to my body and mind. I've only ever slept with two men, Razor and Pete, but I have a feeling that Gabe would…
I cut the thought off before it can finish.
Before it can take shape. Before it can become something real.
Because I already know. That's the problem.
I don't need to imagine it, I feel it. Every time he gets too close.
Every time his hand brushes mine. Every time his voice drops just a fraction lower than necessary.
My body reacts. Immediate. Instinctive. Like it recognizes something before my mind has a chance to catch up.
And I hate that. Or at least I tell myself I do.
I grip the mug harder, focusing on something solid.
Something real. Because this—this pull toward him—it's not safe.
Even though talking with Jenna yesterday helped, I'm not sure if Gabe is a man I should be getting close to.
It's too soon. I don't think I'm in the right frame of mind right now to make any kind of decisions.
Because… Pete.
The name alone tightens something in my chest. Not sharp.
Not like before. But still there. Still present.
Still mine. I loved him. He was safe and steady and good.
Everything Gabe isn't. Everything Razor never was.
And somehow… that makes this worse. Because what does it say about me that I can stand here, with my mother a few feet away, and want another man?
Not just want. It's turning into quite an ache.
A quiet, persistent pull that sits low in my stomach and refuses to be ignored.
I exhale slowly, trying to steady myself.
It would be so easy. That's the most dangerous part.
Not the man. Not the situation. How easy it would be to give in.
To let myself forget. Just for a little while.
Just long enough to not feel the grief. To not see Pete every time I close my eyes.
To not remember that warehouse. But I would remember after.
I don't think I could live with that. Not yet.
I glance at Gabe. Big mistake. He's watching me.
Always seeing more than he should. And for a second—we've had a lot of those lately—something passes between us.
Like he knows exactly where my thoughts just went because he feels it too.
My pulse spikes, and I turn my head away immediately. Distance. I need distance.
"How are you, Mom? How did you sleep?" I ask, because it's a lot safer to talk to her right now than to Gabe.
Mom expels a dramatic sigh like she's been waiting all morning for someone to ask. "Oh, don't even get me started. I barely slept. My head feels… strange. Not pain, exactly, just… off. Like everything is slightly tilted."
I nod, even though I have no idea what that means. She keeps going anyway.
"And the pillows here are too soft. Or too firm. I can't decide. And I kept waking up feeling like someone was watching me."
My eyes flick, involuntarily, to Gabe. He doesn't react. He stands up and leans casually against the counter, coffee in hand, watching the entire exchange with quiet amusement. I could swear he knows exactly what I'm doing. Avoiding him. Using her as a shield. And he's letting me.
For now.
Mom keeps talking. Something about the lighting.
Then the air. Then the fact that the room feels wrong.
It's like she's been collecting complaints all night just to unload them now.
I nod in the right places. Make the right sounds.
But I can feel him. Even without looking.
That attention. Heavy. Focused. Unrelenting.
"—and I swear, there was a noise in the hallway at least three times?—"
"How are you doing, Audra?" Gabe's voice cuts clean through her. Calm and even.
My name lands heavier than it should. Mom keeps talking for another second before trailing off, realizing she's been interrupted. She looks at me questioningly. I need a second to answer his question, because he didn't ask out of politeness. He asked because he wants the truth.
And he knows I won't give it. Not here. Not in front of her. Not when I can still feel everything from last night sitting just under my skin.
I finally look at him. Another mistake. He's watching me the same way he always does. Like he's already three steps ahead. Like he's waiting to see which version of me answers.
"I'm fine," I respond evasively. Hoping he'll leave it at that.
His mouth shifts slightly, not into a smile, not exactly. It's worse; it's a knowing smirk.
"Good," he nods.
But there's nothing casual about it. Nothing dismissive.
It sounds more like: we'll come back to that.
I look away first. Again. Because holding his gaze feels like stepping too close to an edge I'm barely managing to avoid.
Mom clears her throat, pulling the attention back to herself like she needs it to breathe.
"Well, I'm not fine," she announces, as if that settles something.
I latch onto that. Grateful for it. For the distraction. For anything that isn't him. Because the second the room goes quiet again, I know exactly where his attention will go. Even worse, I know exactly how much I want it.
"Maybe you just need rest," I say, softer now, turning toward her. "It's been a lot."
"That's exactly my point," she replies, waving a hand. "Too much. Too fast. I don't like it here, Audra."
Of course she doesn't. Nothing about this place is normal. Nothing about him is normal. Her gaze shifts to Gabe. "When can we go home, Gabe?"
The question lands heavier than it should. Do I want to go home? I look at Gabe, unsure of what to say or ask.
He sets his coffee down with deliberate calm. "You two—and the cats—are welcome to stay here as long as needed," he invites evenly. "There's no rush."
No rush. My stomach tightens. That's not an answer. That's a deflection.
"Gabe," I keep my voice firm, "I have a life I need to get back to."
His eyes shift to me, and I'd be lying if I said I didn't like the way his focus is fully directed on me. I clear my throat and add, reminding myself more of these facts than pointing them out to him. "Friends," I continue. "I have a job—" I hesitate slightly. Had a job, probably. "Bills."
Reality. A reality I might not like. But it's still here, and it won't just magically disappear. They're also normal things. Things that don't exist in his world. Things that kept me grounded for the last six years.
"I need to pay for Pete's funeral." I deliberately throw that one out there, again, more to remind myself.
But I stare at Gabe. Daring him almost. His expression shifts.
He tilts his head, and a smirk plays around his lips as if I'd said something funny.
Then he shakes his head once. "You don't have to worry about that. It's already been taken care of."
The words don't register at first. Not fully. I glance uncertainly at Mom.
"Oh," Mom breathes, her face lighting up instantly. "That's so generous?—"
My eyes shoot back to Gabe. "What?"
His gaze doesn't waver. "Everything's handled," he repeats. "The arrangements. The service. The burial."
My chest tightens. Something in me recoils. Because that, that's not help. That's control.
"I can't accept that," I press my lips together.
His jaw shifts slightly. "You don't have to accept anything. It's done."
That makes it worse. "Gabe?—"
"Audra," he cuts in, quieter now, but firmer. "You're not in a position to be worrying about logistics."
My eyes narrow. "And what position is that?"
He returns my gaze like a challenge. A dangerous one. His eyes hold mine. Steady. Unyielding.
"The one where people are still trying to kill you," he reminds me.
I freeze. He's right about that.
Out of the corner of my eyes, I see Mom looking between us, and confusion flickers across her face. But I don't break eye contact. Because now we're not talking about funerals. We're talking about control. About decisions. About who gets to make them.
"You don't get to just take over my life," I state, quieter now, but no less firm.
His expression doesn't change. "I'm not taking it over," he contradicts. "I'm keeping you alive."
The words land. Hard and final. Because he's right. That's not the worst, though. The worst is that a small, traitorous part of me—the same part that stood in that warehouse, the part that held that gun, the part that felt alive again—understands exactly what he means.
That part doesn't argue. That part doesn't push back.
That part… leans toward him. I hate it. I hate that I understand him.
I hate that a part of me trusts him. My toes cross inside my shoes, like I'm holding on to something.
Because if I let go—if I let him pull me into his world the way he clearly intends to—I don't know if I'll ever find my way back out again.
I'm not entirely sure I want to.