Page 110 of The Beast

“Bella—”

“Shh.” I step closer, work the hem of his t-shirt free from his sweatpants. “No thinking. Just feeling.”

I push the shirt up and over his head, revealing the map of scars that covers his torso. In the light from the high windows, they look almost silver—burn marks and cuts and that puckered bullet wound just below his ribs. Evidence of everything he survived.

I lean in and press my lips to the scar nearest his heart.

He shudders.

“That’s it,” I murmur against his skin. “Just feel.”

I kiss my way across his chest, tracing the topography of his suffering with my lips. Every mark, every ridge, every place where they tried to destroy him. And with each kiss, I feel something in him start to unravel.

“Bella.” My name comes out broken, barely a breath.

“I’m here.” I look up at him, hold his gaze as I ease his sweatpants down over his hips. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He’s hard already, straining toward me, and I want nothing more than to touch him, taste him, make him lose control.

But that’s not what this is about.

I strip, then ease back onto the bed and pull him down with me. He hovers over me, weight braced on his arms, and I can see the war playing out behind his eyes. The beast wanting to take, to claim, to dominate. And the man—the man I fell in love with all those years ago—fighting to stay present.

“Kiss me,” I beg.

He lowers his head. His lips brush against mine, tentative and questioning. Like he’s forgotten how this works. Like he’s learning the shape of my mouth all over again.

I thread my fingers through his hair and pull him closer, deepening the kiss but keeping it soft. No desperation. Just the slow, sweet slide of mouths learning each other again.

When he finally pulls back, his eyes are glassy. Overwhelmed.

“I want to be inside you,” he whispers. “But I don’t know if I can do this without⁠—”

“Without the beast taking over?”

He nods, jaw tight.

“Then we’ll go slow. And if you need to stop, we stop.” I cup his face in my hands. “No matter what, I’ll still be right here.”

Something in his expression cracks open. “Day by day,” he whispers. “And minute by minute.”

He enters me slowly. So slowly it feels like an act of worship as warmth spreads through my body like honey. His eyes stay locked on mine the whole time, as if he fears he’ll look away, and I’ll freak out.

“Okay?” he asks, barely breathing.

“More than okay.” I roll my hips, drawing him deeper, and watch his eyes flutter closed on a groan. “Gabriel. Look at me.”

He does. And in his gaze I see everything—the love he thought was dead, the tenderness he thought was burned away, the man he’s been fighting so hard to bury.

He’s still there. Scarred and changed, but still there.

We find a rhythm that’s nothing like the desperate coupling in the gallery or the intensity of last night. This is something else entirely. Something new and softer. Something that feels terrifyingly like hope.

The pleasure builds gradually. I feel it in my belly, in my thighs, in the curl of my toes. And I watch Gabriel’s face as he fights to stay present, to keep the beast at bay.

To give me exactly what I asked for. Gentle. Tender. Himself.

“I love you,” I whisper as the wave crests. “I love you, Gabriel. All of you.”