Chapter 23
Chapter Twenty-Three
Three days later, I’m having coffee with Harper and Anissa at the small cafe on the east side of the Obsidian’s lobby.
It’s quiet and lovely with the feel of a European cafe.
It’s not quite four, so Anissa’s still technically working, but it’s a slow time, and she’s letting a trainee run the front desk while she keeps an eye on him from afar.
“I still can’t believe how lucky Gabe is that your dad found him,” Harper says. “It’s like a miracle.”
Anissa nods. “I guess it kind of was. He wanted to do some hunting over behind Gabe’s cabin, so he was heading that way to ask if Gabe minded.
Turns out Gabe had managed to drag himself a good ways, so Dad found him in the woods near the cabin.
Nick of time, too,” she says, with an apologetic look to me.
“He was seriously fucked up. I mean, you’ve seen the scars, right? ”
I nod.
“Well, I haven’t,” Harper says. “But I’ll take your word for it until I’m sure that showing them to me won’t throw him into a funk.”
I reach over and take Anissa’s hand. “I owe you big-time,” I tell her.
“You don’t. Neither does Gabe. He’s family now. Besides, you’re really good for him.”
“Yeah?” I feel my cheeks go pink with pleasure.
“At first—well, you know. I really thought he was going to kill you. After I met you, though, I was sure it wasn’t you. The bitch who was with those murderous pricks, I mean.”
“He told you? About how she must have faked my eyes?”
She nods. “That was the deepest wound. You, I mean. Now that he knows it wasn’t actually you—well, now that he believes it—It’s like he’s getting back to how I imagine he was before all of that happened. When he was with us…
She trails off with a shudder, then takes another sip of coffee.
“Will you tell me?” I ask.
She frowns, then looks between Harper and me. “I probably shouldn’t, but he loves you both. And you should probably know. In case—well, honestly, in case he goes off the rails.”
I meet Harper’s eyes. “Yeah,” she says. “We probably should.”
Anissa nods but doesn’t speak right away.
Instead, she just traces her finger around the rim of her mug.
“Broken,” she finally says. “I mean, you both know that, but I’m talking shattered into tiny shards, broken.
Psychically and physically. I mean, he was more wound than man for those first few months.
That was his body. As for the rest, it was like the part of him that knew how to be human had just switched off. ”
Harper and I exchange a glance, and I can see the horror and heartbreak in her eyes, and I’m sure she sees the same in mine.
“He didn’t talk for the first three weeks,” Anissa continues.
“Not a word. Just stared out at nothing. Dad thought maybe the fever had damaged his brain. But then one night I heard him screaming—nightmares—and when I ran in, he grabbed my arm so hard he left bruises.” She shrugs.
“That’s when I knew he was still in there. Just...buried under a lot of pain.”
“Gabe,” Harper’s voice catches. “Oh, god.”
“The rage came later. He made a promise to catch and kill whoever did that to him. And as soon as he made that promise, he started training. Like obsessively. Like if he stopped moving, the darkness would swallow him whole.”
She finishes off her latte, then shrugs. “That’s how he coped,” she says with a shrug. “Still does, when it gets bad. The fighting, the training—it’s not about violence for him. It’s about...I guess you’d say he’s trying to burn it out.
“He never talked to anyone?” Harper asks. “A therapist?
Anissa laughs, but there’s no humor in it.
“Gabriel Grimm, talk about his feelings? Please. Dad tried. I tried. But he just shut down every time. I think painting was his only therapy. “We’ve got a shit ton of his canvases in storage in Aspen. For a while, he barely ate. Just painted. And he’d go days without even speaking.
And when he finally finished a canvas, he’d be a little more human. Like he was there.”
She pauses, then looks at me. “He painted you the most, even though he said he hated you.”
I sip my coffee, trying to swallow the lump in my throat.
“The thing is,” Anissa continues, “I’ve never seen him like he’s been lately.
” She tilts her head, studying me. “He’s still fucked up.
But he’s lighter, too. Like he’s remembered what hope looks like, you know?
And his cards have been lighter lately, too.
Less swords, more cups. And his energy isn’t so jagged anymore. Still a mess, but a healing mess.”
“I’ll take whatever I can get,” I tell her. I down the final sip of my coffee. “Speaking of, I’m going to go see him.” I look at both of them. “Coming?”
Harper shakes her head. “Give him a hug for me, but I have to go hop on a video call with Elliott and—honestly, I don’t even know what it’s about. He’s probably just sick of London and wants company.”
“I can’t either,” Anissa says when I glance her way. “Front desk duty. I can’t leave the ducklings alone yet.”
Having thus been blown off by my friends, I make my way down to the corridor that leads to Gabe’s place. And as I do, I realize I’m smiling. It’s nice to have Anissa’s perspective. It makes clear that he’s already come a long, long way.
But when I step through the door and see him pounding the shit out of a punching bag, my gut twists, and I know there’s still a long, long way to go.
For a moment, I just stand there. He hasn’t seen me yet. He’s too far gone, lost in whatever demon he’s battling, fists slamming into the bag with a fury that makes the chain rattle and groan.
I should announce myself. Should clear my throat or say his name.
Instead, I watch.
There’s something hypnotic about it. The coiled power in his shoulders. The way his muscles flex and release with each strike. The raw, primal energy rolling off him in waves.
This is the Beast. The thing he’s been trying so hard to keep leashed around me. The darkness he’s terrified will swallow us both.
And I realize, watching him, that Anissa had it pretty much right.
This is how he survives it. This is how he’s survived it for five years.
Not by healing. Not by processing. But by beating it out of himself, blow by blow, until his knuckles split and his muscles scream and there’s nothing left but exhaustion.
“Gabe.”
His head snaps toward me, and for a split second, I see it—the wildness in his eyes, the predator surfacing before he shoves it back down.
“Bella.” He’s breathing hard. “I didn’t hear you come in.”
“Clearly.” I set my bag on the counter, but don’t move toward him. Not yet. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing.” He grabs a towel, wipes his face. His knuckles are red. Battered. “Just...burning it off.”
“Burning what off?”
He doesn’t answer. Just stands there, chest heaving, the towel clenched in his fists like he’s fighting the urge to go back to the bag.
“Gabe. Talk to me.”
“You don’t want to hear it.”
“Yeah, I really do.”
His jaw tightens. When he finally speaks, his voice is low. Rough. Like the words are being dragged out of somewhere deep and dark.
“It never stops.” He stares at the bag, not at me. “The rage. The fear. The fucking darkness that lives inside me. I wake up and it’s there. I go to sleep and it’s there. Every time I close my eyes, I’m back in that cabin, and I can smell the smoke and feel the ropes and hear them laughing.”
His hand slams into the bag once, hard. “It never fucking stops.”
My heart cracks open. “Gabe.”
“This is how I survive it.” Another punch, then another. “This is how I keep from destroying everything around me. I beat it out until there’s nothing left. Until I’m too tired to feel anything.”
“And does it work?”
He laughs—a hollow, broken sound. “For a few hours. Maybe. Then it all comes back.”
I cross to him slowly. He tenses when I get close, like he’s afraid of what he might do.
“Don’t.” His voice is strained. “I’m not...I’m not safe right now, Bella. I need to get this under control.”
“Or what?”
“Or I might lose it completely.” He finally looks straight at me, and what I see in his eyes steals my breath. Not anger. Desperation. The look of a man drowning in his own darkness and terrified he’s going to drag me under with him. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
“You won’t.”
“You don’t know that. You don’t know what I’m capable of when I’m like this.”
“Then show me.”
He goes very still.
“Use me,” I say quietly. “Instead of the bag. Use me.”
“That’s insane.”
“Is it?” I step closer, close enough to feel the heat radiating off his skin.
“You need to burn it out? Burn it into me. You need to lose control? Lose it with me.” I reach up, cup his face in my hands, and force him to meet my eyes.
“I’m not afraid of your darkness, Gabriel.
I’m not afraid of the beast. So stop trying to protect me from it and just let go. ”
“I could hurt you.” The words are barely a whisper.
“You won’t.”
“You can’t know that.”
“I can. I know you.” I hold his gaze, steady and sure, and in that moment, I realize it’s not an act. Maybe I should be scared, but I’m not. Whatever it is he needs, he can get from me—I’m certain of it. More, I’m certain he can get it without hurting me.
I take his hand. “I trust you. I know you,” I repeat.
“I know that even when you hated me, you couldn’t bring yourself to truly destroy me.
I know that the man who painted me reaching for light would never snuff that light out.
I know that the Beast isn’t separate from you—it’s part of you. And I love all of you.”
I press my forehead to his, my arms sliding around his waist. “So stop fighting it,” I say. “Stop fighting yourself. Just be with me. All of you. Even the parts you’re afraid of.”
For one endless moment, nothing happens. He just breathes, ragged and harsh, his whole body trembling with the effort of holding himself back.