Chapter 19
ROSALINA
The punching bag swings violently with each hit, the chain above it rattling in protest, but I do not stop.
Cannot stop.
My fists connect over and over—left, right, left, right—the impact reverberating up my arms, through my shoulders, settling somewhere in my chest where the grief and rage and guilt have taken up permanent residence.
Sweat drips down my face, mixing with tears I am barely aware of shedding, and my lungs burn with the effort of breathing through the exertion.
But I do not stop.
The basement gym is dark except for the single overhead light I flicked on when I came down here an hour ago—or maybe it has been two hours, I have lost track of time—and the shadows press in from all sides like they are trying to smother me.
Good. Let them.
I hit the bag harder, ignoring the pain blooming across my knuckles, ignoring the way my wrists are starting to scream in protest, ignoring everything except the need to hit something, to hurt something, to make the physical pain loud enough to drown out everything else.
Patrick's hand on my throat.
His threat against Erin.
The impossible choice he has forced on me.
The lies I am telling Dante.
Hit. Hit. Hit.
"Rosalina."
Gabriel's voice cuts through the sound of my fists connecting with leather, but I don’t acknowledge it, don’t stop, just keep hitting because stopping means thinking and thinking means falling apart.
"Rosalina, stop."
"No," I grit out between punches, my voice raw.
"Bella—"
"I said no!" I hit the bag so hard it swings wildly, the chain groaning.
I hear him move closer, his footsteps deliberate on the concrete floor, and then his hands are on my shoulders, pulling me back from the bag with firm but gentle pressure.
"Let go of me," I snap, trying to twist out of his grip.
"Not until you stop trying to destroy your hands." His voice is calm, infuriatingly calm, and it makes the rage in my chest flare hotter.
"I am fine."
"You are bleeding."
"I don’t care."
"Well I do." He spins me around to face him, and I see his expression shift from concern to alarm when he sees my hands.
I follow his gaze down and realize he is right—my knuckles are split open, blood running down my fingers and dripping onto the floor in small, dark pools.
I have been hitting the bag without wraps, without gloves, without any protection at all, and my hands look like they have been through a meat grinder.
I should care about this. Should feel the pain. Should be alarmed by the amount of blood.
But I feel nothing except a distant, detached observation that yes, those are my hands, and yes, they are bleeding quite a lot.
"Fuck," Gabriel breathes, and then he is pulling me toward the bench along the wall, sitting me down with more force than is probably necessary. "Stay there."
"I am fine," I repeat, but my voice sounds hollow even to my own ears.
He ignores me, moving to the first aid kit mounted on the wall and returning with gauze and antiseptic and an expression that suggests he is barely holding onto his patience.
"Give me your hands," he says.
"No."
"Rosalina—"
"I said no!" I jerk away from him, standing abruptly, and the sudden movement makes my head spin. "I do not need you to fix me. I do not need you to—"
"To what?" Gabriel stands too, stepping into my space, his gray eyes fixed on mine. "To care? To help? To stop you from literally beating yourself bloody?"
"Yes!" The word tears out of me, louder than I intended, echoing in the empty gym. "Yes, stop caring! Stop trying to help! Just—just leave me alone!"
"Not happening." His voice is flat, unyielding. "Try again."
"Why?" I shove at his chest with my bleeding hands, leaving red marks on his white t-shirt. "Why do you care? Why does any of this matter to you?"
"Because you matter to me," he says simply, catching my wrists before I can shove him again. "Because I am not going to stand here and watch you hurt yourself."
"I am not hurting myself, I am—" My voice cracks. "I am just—I needed to—"
The words die in my throat because I do not actually know how to finish that sentence. I needed to what? To hit something? To punish myself? To feel something other than this crushing weight of guilt and fear?
"You needed to what, Bella?" Gabriel's grip on my wrists is gentle despite the firmness, his thumbs pressing against my pulse points. "Talk to me."
"I can’t." The words come out broken, barely above a whisper.
"Why not?"
"Because if I start talking I will not stop and if I do not stop then everything will fall apart and I cannot—" My breathing is coming faster now, shallow and panicked. "I can’t let it fall apart because if it does then Erin dies and it will be my fault and I cannot—I cannot—"
"Breathe," Gabriel commands, and something in his voice cuts through the panic spiraling in my chest. "Rosalina, breathe with me. In through your nose, out through your mouth."
"I can’t—"
"Yes, you can. With me. In." He demonstrates, taking a slow, deliberate breath through his nose.
I try to follow, but it comes out ragged and broken.
"Again," he says patiently. "In through your nose."
This time I manage it, though barely.
"Good. Now out through your mouth."
We breathe together for what feels like an eternity, his hands still holding my wrists, his eyes never leaving mine, until finally the panic recedes enough for me to think semi-clearly again.
"Better?" he asks.
"No." I pull my wrists from his grip, taking a step back, wrapping my arms around myself like I can physically hold myself together. "Nothing is better. Nothing is going to be better. Everything is completely fucked and I do not know how to fix it."
"Then let us help you fix it," Gabriel says, and the earnestness in his voice makes something in my chest crack.
"You can’t help." I shake my head, tears burning in my eyes again. "No one can help. This is my problem and I have to—"
"Stop." He closes the distance between us in two strides, his hands cupping my face, forcing me to look at him. "Stop trying to carry everything alone. Stop pushing us away. Stop pretending you don’t need us."
"I don’t need you," I lie, and even as the words leave my mouth I know they are cruel, know they are designed to push him away, to create distance before I do something stupid like tell him the truth.
His jaw tightens, but his hands do not leave my face. "You don’t mean that."
"I do." I grab his wrists, trying to pull his hands away even though part of me wants to lean into the touch, wants to let him hold me together.
"I do not need you or Dante or Luca. I do not need any of this.
I should have just—I should have stayed in my room and kept my mouth shut and not gotten involved with any of you. "
"You don’t mean that," he repeats, and there is certainty in his voice that makes me want to scream.
"Yes, I do!" I wrench myself out of his grip, anger flooding through me hot and sharp. "This was a mistake. All of it. The marriage, the sharing, letting myself care about you—it was all a mistake and now I am trapped and I cannot—"
I do not get to finish because Gabriel moves, backing me up against the wall with his body, his hands braced on either side of my head, caging me in.
"No," he says, his voice low and dangerous. "You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to push me away with lies just because you are scared."
"I am not scared," I snap, even though we both know it is bullshit.
"You are terrified," he counters. "Something happened at that estate. Something Patrick said or did that has you spiraling. And instead of telling us—instead of letting us help—you are down here trying to beat your hands bloody."
"So what?" I shove at his chest again, but he doesn’t budge. "What does it matter? Why do you care?"
"Because I love you!" The words explode out of him, raw and fierce, and they land between us like a bomb.
I freeze, staring at him, my brain trying to process what he just said.
"What?" The word comes out barely above a whisper.
"I love you," he repeats, softer this time but no less intense. "I am in love with you, Rosalina. And I am not going to stand here and let you destroy yourself."
"You do not—" I shake my head, tears streaming down my face now. "You cannot—"
"I can and I do." His hand comes up to cup my face again, thumb brushing away tears. "I love you. Dante loves you. Luca loves you. And whatever is happening, whatever you are dealing with, we will figure it out together."
“It does not matter, because I love you,” he says breathlessly and then his mouth is on mine.
The kiss is not gentle. It is fierce and desperate and tastes like salt from my tears and blood from my split knuckles that must have brushed against his face. I try to push him away, try to maintain some semblance of control, but he kisses me deeper and my resistance crumbles like paper on fire.
I kiss him back with all the rage and fear and desperation churning inside me, my bloody hands fisting in his shirt, pulling him closer even as part of me screams to push him away.
He breaks the kiss just long enough to grip my thighs and lift me, pinning me against the wall with his hips, and I wrap my legs around his waist on instinct, my body making decisions my brain has abandoned trying to control.
"Tell me to stop," he says against my mouth, his voice rough. "If you want me to stop, tell me now."
I should tell him to stop. Should push him away. Should maintain the distance I need to keep the lies intact, but I can’t keep this rage in me alone any longer.
"Don’t stop," I breathe. "Please, Gabriel, do not stop."
He groans, the sound vibrating through both of us, and then his mouth is on my neck, teeth grazing skin, and I arch into him, my head falling back against the wall.
"I hate you," I gasp out, even though we both know it is a lie.
"No, you don’t." His hands slide under my shirt, palms hot against my skin. "Try again."