Chapter 25
Chapter Twenty-Five
The first few days after Dekker are almost normal.
We fall into an easy rhythm—mornings in Gabe’s apartment, coffee and conversation before I hurry to the Monarch to deal with the gallery or the casino. I’ve told him to come with me, to hole up in the back room and paint. But he just shakes his head and says he’s not ready.
I don’t push.
It would be easier to move him into my suite, but that could put him on a collision course with my father, and neither of us wants that. Not until we have enough evidence to bury Sterling Hart for good.
And so our days stay separate.
Chris has a tight hand on the gallery, so I can mostly cross that off my plate.
But between putting out fires at the casino and dodging my father’s calls, I’m ridiculously busy.
At least Gabriel pulled the Gaming Commission complaints.
That’s one less battle for me. Plus, it’s proof he’s done trying to destroy me.
Not that I still need proof.
He’s busy, too. Tracking Webb with Leo, building the case. Anything and everything they can find to nail my father to the proverbial prison wall.
Evenings, though…
Well, evenings are ours.
We cook together. Talk. And inevitably end up with our bodies tangled together on his couch, or in that tiny closet of a bedroom, and for a few hours at least, it almost feels like us again.
Almost.
Because something’s shifted. Since Dekker. Since Gabriel watched me watch him beat the truth out of a man. Since he came face to face with what was done to him—and what he’s capable of doing in return.
The beast that had finally started to trust me is back in its cage.
Gabe touches me like I’m breakable now. Like I might shatter. Like one wrong move will undo everything we’ve rebuilt.
Except, no. That’s not quite it. He touches me like a giant holding a baby bird, terrified that he’ll somehow accidentally crush the life out of the little thing. And knowing that he’s more than capable of doing that.
I tell myself he needs gentle. After everything, we both do.
Except I don’t need gentle. Hell, I don’t want gentle.
What I want is him. The real Gabe. The man who pinned me against that wall and growled my name like it was sacred. The beast, not the penitent.
But every time the heat rises between us, I feel him pull back. Slow down. Check himself. Like he’s afraid that if he lets go, he’ll prove he’s the monster he saw reflected in Dekker’s terrified eyes.
He’s punishing himself.
It takes me a while to realize it, but now that I do, there’s no denying it. The careful touches, the restrained passion—it’s not tenderness. It’s penance.
But I don’t want his guilt. I want his fire.
I want the man who told me to use him instead of his demons. The man who let me see all of him—the darkness and the light—and trusted me to love him anyway.
That man is still in there. I know he is. But Dekker dragged him back underground, and I don’t know how to reach him.
So I wait. I give him space. I let him set the pace, even when my body screams for more.
Because pushing him now would only make it worse. Would only confirm his fear that he’s too broken, too dangerous, too much.
And I refuse to be the reason he retreats further into himself.
Day by day, I remind myself. We promised each other that.
Day by day.
I just hope he remembers it, too.
The nightmare comes that night.
I wake to the sound of screaming.
Not mine. His.
Gabe’s thrashing beside me, tangled in the sheets, his face contorted in an expression of pure agony. The sounds coming from him aren’t words—just raw, animal noises of terror and pain.
“Gabriel.” I sit up, reaching for him. “Gabriel, wake up. It’s a dream. You’re safe. You’re—”
His hand shoots out and catches my wrist in a grip like iron. Before I can jerk free, he’s rolling, pinning me beneath him, his other hand closing around my throat.
I gasp, but I get no air. I can’t breathe.
Panic washes over me, cold. Hard. I struggle, trying to cry out. Trying to get through to him. But I can’t.
His hand is a vice around my throat, crushing, killing, and I claw at his fingers, but they don’t move, don’t even twitch. My lungs burn. My chest heaves, but nothing gets through.
His eyes are open. He’s looking right at me. But he doesn’t see me.
I try to say his name, but nothing comes out. Just a wet, airless rasp. Black spots bloom at the edges of my vision.
I’m going to die.
The thought is clear. Calm.
Terrifying in its stillness as my body thrashes beneath him, his weight pinning me down, and his hand tightening.
I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe.
I go limp. Not a choice. Not a decision. I just—stop fighting. My body goes soft. My mind fuzzy.
I’m limp beneath him. “Gabriel.” It’s my voice. Somehow, it’s my voice.
Something flickers in his eyes. A crack in the nightmare’s hold.
“Izzy.” My name on his lips, confused. Lost. “Izzy, I—”
His gaze clears. Focuses on my face. On his hand around my throat.
The horror that floods his expression is worse than the choking.
He releases me like I’ve burned him, scrambling backward off the bed, hitting the wall hard enough to knock a painting loose. It crashes to the floor, but neither of us looks at it.
“No.” The word is barely human. “No, no, no,”
I sit up, sucking in air, one hand pressed to my throat. I can already feel the bruises forming.
“Gabe.”
“Don’t.” He holds up a hand, warding me off. His whole body is shaking. “Don’t come near me.”
“It was a nightmare. You didn’t know what you were doing.”
“I could have killed you.” His voice cracks. “Do you understand that? I had my hands around your throat, and I was squeezing, and I didn’t even know it was you.”
He makes a wailing noise, then presses the heels of his hands against his eyes. “I thought you were one of them. I thought I was fighting back.”
I stay on the bed, giving him space even though every instinct screams at me to go to him. “But you stopped. You heard me, and you stopped.”
“This time.” He laughs—a horrible, hollow sound. “What about next time? What about the time I don’t wake up fast enough?”
“Gabe. I’m okay.”
“This is why I go to the gym. Why I fight until I can barely stand, until every muscle in my body is screaming. Because if I’m exhausted enough—if I’m broken down enough—I can sleep without dreaming. He gestures at me, at the bed, at the space between us. “Without this.”
I touch my throat, and though I don’t’ mean to, I wince at the tenderness there.
Gabriel sees it, and his face crumples.
“They broke something in me, Izzy.” His voice is raw, scraped hollow. “I came out of that cabin wrong. I’m always on edge now. Always waiting for the next attack. I can’t trust myself. And if I can’t trust myself, how can you?”
“I can. I do.”
“I’m going to hurt you.” The words come out flat.
Certain. Like he’s pronouncing a death sentence.
“Maybe not tonight. Maybe not tomorrow. But eventually, I’m going to lose control, and you’re going to be the one who pays.
And then I’ll lose you.” His voice breaks.
“Either you’ll run—which you should—or I’ll. ..”
He can’t finish. Can’t say the words.
Or I’ll kill you.
I should be afraid. Some part of me is—some primitive survival instinct that remembers the pressure of his hand on my windpipe. My body knows it came close to death tonight.
But I look at Gabriel—at this man who survived something unimaginable, who crawled out of hell only to find himself trapped in a different kind of prison—and all I feel is heartbreak.
“Come here,” I say softly.
“Didn’t you hear what I just said?”
“I heard you. Come here anyway.”
He doesn’t move. Just stands there against the wall, broken glass glittering around his bare feet, looking at me like I’m speaking a language he doesn’t understand.
“Gabe.” I keep my voice steady. Calm. “You can get through this. Yes, you’re struggling. Yes, you have triggers and nightmares and reactions you can’t always control. But that doesn’t mean you’re doomed to hurt me. It doesn’t mean we can’t figure this out.”
“I almost killed you.” Each word is precise. Brutal. “The woman I love. I had my hands around your throat, and I was going to squeeze until you stopped breathing. That’s not a struggle, Isabella. That’s a ticking time bomb.”
I flinch at the use of my full name. At the distance it creates.
“So what’s your solution?” I ask quietly. “You leave? Go back to the fight clubs, the underground empire, the life you had before? Spend the rest of your days alone because you’re afraid of what you might do?”
“At least you’d be safe.”
“I’d be miserable.” I slide off the bed, ignoring the way he tenses as I hurry to his side. “You’d be miserable, too. We spent five years apart, Gabriel. Five years of grief and rage and loneliness. I’m not doing that again.”
“Even if staying with me could get you killed?”
“Even then. But it won’t.”
I stop about a foot away from him. “I’m not afraid of you.”
“You should be.”
“Maybe. But I’m more afraid of losing you again.”
His composure finally cracks. A sob bursts out of him—raw and broken and completely unguarded. And then his arms are around me, crushing me against his chest, and he’s shaking so hard I can feel it in my bones.
“I’m sorry,” he gasps into my hair. “I’m so sorry, Izzy.”
“I know.” I hold him just as tightly. “I know.”
We stand there in the wreckage of the bedroom—fallen painting, sheets tangled on the floor—and just hold each other.
It’s not a solution. It’s not healing. But for now, in this moment, we’re choosing each other.
Then his phone buzzes. I hurry to get it so he doesn’t slice up his feet, then take him the phone and some slippers.
“Leo,” he says after he hangs up. “Webb’s in custody. We should get going.”
And just like that, the walls are back.