Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
The Obsidian looks different in the daylight. Still stately, but the magical beauty of the old building is less in sunlight. As if it needs stars and moonbeams to come into its own.
And not a single thing about it suggests underground fight clubs tucked in near the city’s bustling boardwalk.
Then again, it doesn’t have a Billionaire Back From The Dead vibe either.
“You’re sure that’s it?” Harper asks, eyeing the doorman in his crisp uniform from our vantage point across the street.
“Yeah, but yesterday we entered through a service door. Gabe used a key card.”
Harper nods. “Okay, so we go in through the front and chat up the desk clerk.”
“And hope they’ll give us directions to the secret underground lair of my presumed-dead ex-boyfriend, who thinks I tried to kill him. Perfect plan. Easy-peasy.”
Harper snorts. “When you put it that way…”
We glance at each other, then cross the street and walk through the front doors like we own the place. It’s a trick Harper taught me years ago—confidence gets you past more security than any keycard.
The lobby is all marble and crystal chandeliers, hushed and refined like the businesspeople dotting the leather chairs.
A concierge looks up as we pass, but we’re dressed well enough that she just nods as we head to the front desk.
“Hi there,” Harper says to the clerk. “I’m hoping you can help me. I’m looking for Gabriel Grimm.”
The woman’s expression flickers—just for a second, but I catch it.
“I’m sorry, I don’t believe I know that name.”
Harper leans on the desk, her I’m serious now expression pasted on her face. “You need to tell him that Harper Lang is here. He’ll be irritated if you don’t.”
A long pause, then the clerk picks up her phone, turns away, and murmurs something too quiet to hear.
I’ve counted to thirteen when she turns back to us with a carefully neutral expression.
“Someone will be with you shortly. If you’d like to wait in the lounge?”
Thankfully, we don’t have to wait long.
The woman who comes for us is about my age, with dark hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail and the kind of effortless beauty that makes you want to hate her on principle. She wears a necklace with a stunning crystal pendant, and I notice her slip a pack of Tarot cards into her jacket pocket.
She moves through the lobby like she owns it—which, given the way the staff defers to her, she might.
“Harper Lang?” Her voice is warm but guarded. “I’m Anissa Graves. I manage the hotel.”
“And you know Gabriel,” Harper says. Not a question.
Something shifts in Anissa’s expression. “I’m terribly sorry to break sad news, but Gabriel Grimm died five years ago.”
Harper’s been running this show, but now she looks at me, as if she’s curious what I’m going to say.
I shoot a quick glance at Harper, then shrug. “They’re friends,” I say. “And we know Gabe’s alive.”
I watch Anissa’s face, but her expression reveals nothing.
“I want to see him,” Harper says. “I spent five years thinking he was dead. And because—” Harper’s voice wavers, just slightly. “Because he’s family. And I need to see him.”
Anissa studies her for a long moment. Then her gaze shifts to me.
“You’re Isabella Hart.”
It’s not a question. And from the cool assessment in her eyes, I can tell she knows exactly what Gabriel believes about me.
“I am.”
“He’s not going to want to see you.”
“He seemed fine with it last night.”
Her brows rise, and I take a tiny bit of satisfaction in surprising her. And in wondering if she and Gabe are a thing. Back off, bitch. He’s mine.
Harper glances my way and raises a brow—a silent order to behave. She really does know me too well.
“Bottom line,” Harper says, “we want to see him. Both of us.”
Her mouth twists, but she says nothing, just turns her attention toward the man who’s now striding across the lobby toward us. He’s mid-fifties, broad-shouldered, with a kind of weathered handsomeness. His eyes are fixed on me with an intensity that makes me want to take a step back.
“Anissa.” His voice is low. Gravelly. “What’s going on?”
“Hey, Dad. Visitors for Gabriel.” She stresses the name. “Old friends.”
It’s subtle, but I catch the way his jaw tightens. “He’s training. Doesn’t want to be disturbed.”
“I know.” Anissa meets his gaze. “But I think he’ll want to see Harper.”
Travis looks at Harper—really looks at her. Something in his expression shifts. “You’re the one from the pictures. The trio.”
Harper nods, her throat working, probably in an effort to hold back tears. I’m not surprised. I’ve heard approximately eight billion stories about the fun and mischief Gabe, Elliott, and Harper got into back in the day.
Travis turns his attention to me, his eyes as flat as his expression. There’s a long pause, then he sighs. “He’s going to ream my ass.”
Anissa shrugs. “Won’t be the first time.”
Travis almost smiles. Almost. Then he jerks his head toward the back hallway. “Come on. But I’m warning you—he’s in a mood.”
“He’s been in a mood for five years,” Anissa murmurs as we follow. “At this point, I think we can just call it his personality.”
The Beast is everything I remember from last night—the exposed brick, the amber lighting, the distant thump of music, and the muffled roar of a crowd.
But in the daylight hours, it feels different.
Less like a noir film, more like a gym. Men wrap their hands with tape.
Heavy bags swing from chains. The smell of sweat and leather fills the air.
And there, in a roped-off ring at the center of the room, is Gabriel.
He’s shirtless, his back to us, but I see his reflection in a wide mirror. Three puckered marks on his chest and torso set against a canvas of hard, scarred skin. I stifle a shiver and blink back tears. Bullet wounds.
And that’s not all. A web of faded lines stretches across his back at his shoulders. More scars, and they’re like a map of pain.
I blink even more fiercely, determined to hold my tears at bay.
“Oh, god,” Harper says, taking my hand as we gape at the show.
Except it’s not a show. It’s real—every punch hitting flesh, sometimes drawing blood.
He’s sparring with a man twice his size, but he’s winning.
Gabe moves with a brutal grace that steals my breath.
Every punch is controlled. Precise. Devastating.
This is a man who’ll never be a victim again. A man who doesn’t need a gun because he’s the fucking weapon.
Harper makes a small sound beside me, and I squeeze her hand.
To my right, Travis clears his throat. “Hey, Savage?”
Behind us, Anissa whispers, “He uses the name Lyon Savage here. Well, that or The Beast. And he is going to be so pissed.”
Gabriel lands one more punch—sending his opponent reeling—then he turns. His eyes find Harper first, and for one breathless second, his whole face changes. The ice cracks. Something raw and unguarded breaks through.
“Harper?” His voice is hoarse. “What the hell are you doing here?”
She’s already moving, ducking under the ropes, throwing herself at him. He catches her automatically, his arms wrapping around her, and for a moment, he simply holds on. Eyes closed. Jaw tight. Like he’s afraid she’ll disappear if he lets go.
“You asshole,” Harper sobs into his chest, her fists useless against the muscles in his back. “You absolute asshole. Five years, Lyon. For five fucking years I thought you were dead.”
“I was.” His voice cracks. “I’m sorry.”
“Sorry? Sorry doesn’t cover it. I’m going to kill you. I’m going to bring you back from the dead just so I can kill you myself.”
He laughs—an actual laugh, broken and rusty like he’s forgotten how—and holds her tighter.
And I stand there, watching, as the hollow ache of misery and longing spreads through my chest.
This is exactly what I’ve been wanting. Gabe, alive and reunited with the people who love him. His frozen armor finally cracking.
But it’s not cracking for me.
His eyes open, finding me over Harper’s shoulder. And just like that, the ice is back. The warmth disappears like it was never there. His expression goes flat. Closed tight.
He doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t have to.
Harper pulls back from him, her gaze sweeping over me. Her face falls. “Oh, Bella.”
“Stay,” I say, forcing a smile that feels like broken glass. “Catch up. You two have five years to cover.”
She shakes her head. “I’m not going to just leave you out here.”
“It’s okay. I’m fine.” We both know I’m not, but Harper hasn’t seen Gabriel in five years, either, and she deserves this moment. “I’ll wait in the lobby. Take your time.”
She hesitates, clearly torn. Gabriel’s hand is still on her shoulder, but his eyes are on me—flat and unreadable.
“Go,” I tell her. “Really. Shoo.” Then I turn and walk away before she can argue.
I make it to the hallway before I hear footsteps behind me. “Isabella. Wait.”
It’s Anissa, her heels clicking against the tile as she catches up.
Something snaps inside me. I whirl around, tears streaming down my face, five years of grief and one night of accusations boiling over.
“What? You want to tell me he hates me, too? That I’m a murderer? That I don’t deserve to breathe the same air as him?”
My voice cracks, but I don’t care. “I didn’t do it.
I didn’t try to kill him. I love him. I’ve loved him forever, and I spent five years thinking he was dead.
Five years with my heart ripped out. Five years of lighting candles on his birthday, unable to let anyone touch me because I was still in love with a ghost.”
Anissa stands frozen, her expression shifting from guarded to something else. Surprise, maybe.
“You want to talk about pain?” I’m shaking now. “He got to be angry. He got to plan his revenge and build his little empire down here.
“What did I get? I got to grieve. I got to fall apart. I got to watch everyone move on while I stayed frozen in the moment without a single goddamn answer.” I wipe my cheeks and sniffle. “So don’t follow me out here to defend him. Because, I swear, I can’t take any more.”
There’s a long silence as she studies me, her head tilted slightly. She stays like that for so long that I finally scoff and start walking again.
“Bella.”
I stop, then turn back to her, my shoulders dropping with exhaustion. “What now?”
“You’re not what I expected.”
“Sorry.” I cross my arms. “I left my horns and pitchfork back at the Monarch.”
She starts to say something, bites her lip, then starts again. “I don’t know what happened at the cabin,” she says, her voice so soft I have to step closer. “But he recovered at my dad’s place.”
“Oh.” For some reason, that hits me hard. “I didn’t know that.”
“Why would you? The point is, I’ve watched him for five years. Watched him train, and plan, and sketch.”
She takes another step toward me. “He doesn’t paint anymore, but I’ve seen him sketch. He doesn’t show anyone what’s in that sketchbook, but one day—”
She cuts herself off with a shake of her head. “I shouldn’t.”
“Hey, you started it.”
She glances over her shoulder, then edges around a corner, urging me to follow. I consider bailing, but I’m just too curious.
“One day, he didn’t lock the drawer. I was looking for a legal pad and, well, I found the book.”
“And?” I catch myself leaning in.
“It’s the same woman. He sketches her. Over and over.
I found one once, crumpled in the trash.
He’d tossed it, but I could see how much love there was in those lines.
I thought maybe he was remembering his mother.
Like from when he was little. But it wasn’t.
” She looks me up and down slowly. “It’s you, isn’t it? ”
I can’t speak. Can barely breathe.
“Hatred doesn’t look like that,” she says quietly as she stands in soft focus beyond my tears.
From somewhere behind me, I hear Travis’s voice. “Anissa?”
I turn as she takes a step toward him. He’s standing at the end of the hallway, arms crossed, his expression a clear warning. Don’t get involved.
She pauses before passing me. “I’m not saying I trust you. I don’t know you. But I thought you should know.”
Then she falls in step with her father and heads toward the elevator and the hotel above us.
I stand still for a moment, not sure how I feel.
Confused? Hopeful? Angry? All of it, actually.
But it’s not just about what I feel, but what I see.
And after talking with Anissa—after the night before, seeing my wadded-up picture pinned on the wall of his Spartan little cell—well, maybe I’m starting to see something really important.
Like a crack in the wall Gabriel’s built around himself.
And that, at least, is something.