16. Gabriels Confession
Gabriel's Confession
Gabriel
The greenhouse is the only place in this house where I can breathe.
I've been coming here since before I could walk—since my mother carried me in her arms and showed me the orchids she'd planted with her own hands. She used to sing to them. She used to tell me that flowers could hear you, that they bloomed brighter when they knew they were loved.
I believed her. I still believe her.
But I don't sing anymore.
I've been standing here for hours, surrounded by my mother's orchids, trying to make sense of everything that's happened. Monika went to the warehouse. She confronted Nathan. She saved a child. And then she came back to this house—this cage—and let Aleksander hold her while she cried.
I know because I saw them.
I was in the hallway, on my way to my room, when I heard voices through her door. I shouldn't have stopped. I shouldn't have listened. But I did. I pressed my ear to the wood and I heard everything—her tears, his reassurances, the sounds of bodies moving together in the dark.
I heard her cry out his name.
I should be angry. I should be hurt. I should be anything other than what I am—standing here, surrounded by dead things that are still alive, pretending I'm not falling apart.
But I'm not angry. I'm not hurt.
I'm resigned.
I've been watching her for over year.
Not the way Nathan watches—with hunger and possession and the desperate need to consume.
Not the way Aleksander watches—with guilt and longing and the weight of twenty years of grief.
I've been watching her the way you watch a sunrise—with wonder, with hope, with the quiet certainty that you're witnessing something beautiful.
She doesn't know I do it. She doesn't know that I've memorized the way she moves through a room, the way she holds her hands when she's nervous, the way her brow furrows when she's reading something difficult.
She doesn't know that I've catalogued every laugh, every smile, every moment of peace she's managed to find in this house of horrors.
She doesn't know that I've been in love with her since the moment I saw her through the window of that diner.
But she's never going to be mine.
Not really. Not completely. Not the way I want her to be.
Because she's already theirs.
I think about leaving.
I think about it every day. I've been accepted to Stanford—to the medical program I've been dreaming about since I was eight years old.
I could go. I could pack my bags and walk out of this house and never look back.
I could build a life far from this family, far from this city, far from the darkness that's been eating me alive for as long as I can remember.
But I can't.
Because every time I try to leave, I think about her.
I think about the way she looked at me that night in the garden, when I asked her to come with me. I think about the way she said "I'm already theirs" like it was a prison sentence. I think about the way she kissed me afterward—soft and sad and full of all the things she couldn't say.
She's not going to save herself. She doesn't know how.
So I'm going to save her.
I find her in the library.
She's sitting in one of the leather armchairs, a textbook spread across her knees, her lips moving as she reads. Veterinary pharmacology. The same book she's been reading for months. The same dream she's been holding onto, even as everything around her falls apart.
She doesn't hear me come in. She's lost in the words, in the world she's trying to reclaim. I watch her for a long moment—the slope of her shoulders, the way her hair falls across her face, the small furrow between her brows.
She's beautiful. She's everything.
And I'm going to lose her.
She looks up. Her eyes meet mine. Brown, steady, the color of earth after rain.
"Gabriel." Her voice is soft, surprised. "I didn't hear you come in."
"I know." I walk toward her. I stop in front of her chair. "Can I sit?"
"Of course."
I sit on the ottoman at her feet. I don't touch her—not yet. I don't know if I have the right.
"I've been thinking," I say. "About us. About this family. About everything that's happened."
She closes the book and sets it aside. She watches me with those steady brown eyes.
"And what have you decided?" she asks.
"That I'm going to be a doctor."
A small smile flickers across her face. "I know. You've been telling me that since the day we met."
"I'm going to be a doctor," I repeat. "And I'm going to save you."
The smile fades. Something shifts in her expression—something that might be hope or might be fear or might be something else entirely.
"From what?" she asks.
"From yourself. From us. From all of this."
"Gabriel..."
"I know you don't want to be saved. I know you think you're beyond saving. I know you think this—this house, this family, these men—is all you deserve." I reach for her hand. She lets me take it. "But I'm not going to stop trying. I'm never going to stop trying."
"Gabriel." Her voice is soft. "You're the best part of this place. The only good part. And I'm going to ruin you."
"You can't ruin me. I'm already ruined."
"You're not."
"I am." I touch her face. My fingers are cold against her skin.
"I've been ruined since the moment I saw you through that window.
I've been ruined since the moment you smiled at me and asked if I wanted coffee.
I've been ruined since the moment I realized I would do anything—anything—to make you happy. "
She kisses me.
It's not a gentle kiss.
Not the way it was in the garden, when we were both too afraid to want anything. Not the way it was in the greenhouse, when I was too desperate to be gentle. It's the kiss of a woman who has made a decision, who is tired of pretending, who is ready to take what she wants.
She pulls me down to her. Her hands find my face, my neck, my hair. She presses her body against mine, and I feel her heat through the thin fabric of her dress.
"I need you," she says against my lips. "I need you, Gabriel."
"You have me." I'm breathless. I'm shaking. "You've always had me."
She stands. She takes my hand. She leads me to the floor—the same floor where we made love before, the same spot where I held her and told her I would always love her.
"I want this," she says. "I want you."
"You have me."
She undresses me slowly. She takes her time, pressing her lips to every inch of skin she reveals. My collarbone. My chest. The soft curve of my stomach. I watch her face as she works—the concentration in her eyes, the way her brow furrows, the way she bites her lower lip.
She's beautiful. She's everything.
And for this one moment, she's mine.
But then she doesn't stop. Her fingers find the waistband of my trousers, and she looks up at me through her lashes—a question and a promise all at once.
I can barely breathe. I nod, and she unfastens them with deliberate slowness, dragging the fabric down my hips, my thighs, until I'm completely bare before her.
"God, Gabriel," she whispers, and the reverence in her voice makes my chest ache.
She settles between my legs, her palms flat against my thighs, and just looks at me.
At my cock, already hard and straining for her, flushed and wet at the tip.
I feel exposed in a way I never have before—not ashamed, but seen. Every inch of me, laid open for her.
She licks her lips.
"Let me take care of you," she says. "Let me worship you the way you deserve."
And then her mouth is on me.
I gasp—a broken, desperate sound—as her lips close around the head of my cock.
She's warm and wet and perfect, her tongue swirling in slow, deliberate circles that make my vision go white at the edges.
She takes me deeper, inch by agonizing inch, her hand wrapping around the base of me to stroke what her mouth can't reach.
"Fuck," I breathe. "Oh, fuck, please—"
She hums around me, and the vibration sends sparks shooting up my spine.
I tangle my fingers in her hair—not pulling, just holding on, anchoring myself to her as she works me with her mouth.
She's relentless. She's devoted. Every stroke of her tongue, every hollow of her cheeks, every soft moan she makes around my cock feels like a prayer.
She pulls off just long enough to look up at me, her lips swollen and glistening. "You taste so good," she says. "I want to taste you everywhere."
Before I can respond, she takes me back into her mouth, deeper this time, until I can feel the tight heat of her throat.
I buck my hips involuntarily, and she doesn't pull away—she takes it, moaning around me like she's the one being pleasured.
Her hand cups my balls, gentle but firm, and I know I'm not going to last much longer.
"I'm close," I warn her, my voice ragged. "You need to—if you don't stop—"
She pulls off with a wet, obscene sound that makes my cock twitch. "Not yet," she says. "I'm not done with you."
She stands, and I watch—dazed, trembling—as she reaches behind her back and unzips her dress.
It falls to the floor in a whisper of fabric, leaving her in nothing but a scrap of lace.
She unhooks her bra, lets it drop, and then she's standing before me completely bare, her skin flushed pink in the candlelight, her nipples peaked and hard.
"Lie back," she commands.
I obey.
She straddles me, her thighs bracketing my hips, and the heat of her cunt hovers just above my cock. I can feel how wet she is—slick and ready and mine—and I nearly come right there, untouched.
"Please," I beg. "Please, I need—"
"Shh," she says, pressing a finger to my lips. "I told you. I'm going to take what I want."
She reaches down, guides me to her entrance, and then she sinks onto me.
I cry out—a raw, helpless sound—as her walls stretch around me, hot and tight and perfect. She doesn't stop until I'm buried to the hilt, her hips flush against mine, and then she just... stays there. Breathing. Adjusting. Looking down at me with eyes that are dark with want.
"Gabriel," she whispers. "You feel so good."
Then she starts to move.
She rides me like she's been waiting her whole life for this. Like she's tired of being careful, tired of being afraid, tired of pretending she doesn't want exactly this—my cock buried deep inside her, my hands gripping her hips, my name falling from her lips like a prayer.
I watch her—worship her—as she moves above me. The way her breasts bounce with every roll of her hips. The way her head falls back, her mouth open, her breath coming in sharp, desperate gasps. The way she grinds down on me, chasing her own pleasure, using my body like it belongs to her.
Because it does. It always has.
"You're so beautiful," I manage. "You're everything. I love you. I love you, I love—"
She leans down and kisses me, swallowing the rest of my words. Her tongue slides against mine as she rides me harder, faster, her hips working in a rhythm that's driving me closer and closer to the edge.
"I want you to come inside me," she whispers against my mouth. "I want to feel you."
That's all it takes.
I come with a shout, my hips bucking wildly beneath her, my hands fisting in her hair as I empty myself into her. She follows a moment later, her body convulsing around mine, her nails raking down my chest as she cries out my name.
When it's over, I hold her.
We're lying on the floor of the library, tangled in each other, the fire crackling in the hearth. The world outside this room has ceased to exist. There's only her—her heartbeat against my chest, her breath warm on my skin, her fingers tracing lazy patterns on my arm.
"I'm going to save you," I whisper. "Even if you don't want to be saved."
She doesn't answer.
"I'm going to become a doctor. I'm going to build a life far from this place. And I'm going to come back for you. I'm going to take you away from all of this."
She lifts her head. She looks at me with those steady brown eyes.
"You can't save everyone," she says. "You can't fix everything."
"I know." I touch her face. "But I can save you. I can fix this. I can give you the life you deserve."
"What if I don't want that life?"
"Then I'll find another one. I'll give you whatever you want. I'll be whatever you need."
She's quiet for a long moment. Then she kisses me—soft, tender, the way she kissed me that first time in the garden.
"You're too good for me," she says.
"That's not for you to decide."
She smiles. It's a small smile, tired at the edges, but real.
"I don't deserve you," she says.
"I don't care."
She laughs. It's a broken sound, wet and raw, but it's a laugh. It's the first time I've heard her laugh in months.
"I love you," I say. "I know you can't say it back. I know you're not ready. But I need you to know. I need you to remember."
"I'll remember."
"Promise me."
"I promise."
I hold her tighter. I press my lips to her hair. I breathe her in.
And for the first time in a year, I feel something that might be hope.
I stay with her all night.
We don't sleep. We just lie there, in the dark, holding each other. We talk about nothing—about the farm, about my mother, about the life we might have had if things had been different.
"What was she like?" Monika asks. "Your mother."
I close my eyes. I see her face—the dark hair, the sad smile, the eyes that held so much love and so much pain.
"She was beautiful," I say. "She was kind. She was the only person in this house who ever made me feel safe."
"I wish I could have met her."
"She would have loved you." I stroke her hair. "She would have seen what I see."
"What do you see?"
"Someone who deserves better than this. Someone who deserves to be happy."
She's quiet for a long moment. Then she says, "I don't know how to be happy anymore."
"I'll teach you."
"You can't teach someone to be happy."
"I can try."
She lifts her head. She looks at me with those steady brown eyes.
"You're going to be a great doctor," she says.
"I'm going to try."
"I'm going to be proud of you."
"You will?"
"Yes." She touches my face. "I'm already am Gabriel. Every day I grow more and more proud of you."
For a moment I feel like everything in the world would be okay.
That I could have the girl. That I could save my brother. Make my father proud.
But being a Mire doesn't just come with a name alone, it comes with the promise of death and destruction.
And I would learn sooner than later that hope was a fools emotion.