Page 114 of The Beast

Chapter Thirty-Three

Two days pass.

Two days of Gabriel pacing like a caged animal, of terse phone calls with Leo, of silence that feels like a held breath.

He hasn’t touched me since he got my father’s threat. Hasn’t painted. Hasn’t done anything but pace and plan and stare at his phone like he’s waiting for permission to unleash hell.

When I walk in after hours of chasing fires at the Monarch—and finding no evidence of my father or Mina on site at the Casino—I find Gabe shirtless and sweating, beating the shit out of the heavy bag in the corner of his studio, his fists wrapped, his breathing rough, his jaw tight with determination.

He must have been at this for hours, and it looks like he could keep going for hours more. Like an Olympian. Or a machine.

No. Like a weapon honed by five years of fury. Every muscle carved, every movement precise. Shoulders that could carry the weight of the world—and have.

A body I know so well, now coiled with well-honed rage.

I push my worry deep into my gut and try to sound casual when I say, “You promised to take me to The Beast.”

He doesn’t stop punishing the bag. In fact, the blows come faster.

“Not now, Bella.” His breathing is hard. Ragged.

“You said we’d go soon. That was days ago. We’re way past soon.”

I move closer, facing him from the other side of the bag. “You promised to show me all of it. All of you.” I reach out and hold the bag still. “It’s time.”

“Fuck.” The curse sounds ripped out of him, and he steps back. His eyes are so bloodshot they’re practically solid red. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”

“Not really the point.” I move around the bag to his side and draw a breath, softening a little. “Gabe, it’s time.”

Finally, he looks at me and nods, like all along, it was as simple as that. “Fine,” he says, with an edge to his voice. “Let’s go.”

He pulls on a black tee that clings to his chest and torso, then takes my hand. I’ve never wandered all the corridors that lead into the belly of The Beast. My corner of this world is a small, plain studio apartment.

This is something else entirely.

Gabriel leads me through a steel door and down a corridor lit by caged bulbs, the concrete walls are painted black, and gurgling pipes run overhead as our footsteps echo behind us, the only sound we’re making because Gabriel hasn’t said a single word since we left the studio.

I pushed him into this, and now I’m getting the silent treatment. Fine. I can handle pissed. Pissed is better than the alternative.

Maybe I’m a little pissed, too.

The air seems to change as we go deeper—warmer and more humid, and carrying the faint copper tang of old blood and fresh sweat.

We pass doors marked with numbers, but no other labels. A muffled thud reverberates out from somewhere. Then another. And another.

Training rooms. Fighters preparing for what comes next.

The corridor turns, then turns again. A labyrinth. I’d never find my way back alone, and I think that’s the point. This place wasn’t built to be found. It was built to be hidden.

We move down yet another long corridor, but this one opens up at the end. And when it does, I swear I stop breathing.

A massive space stretches before us—part arena, part underground cathedral. Exposed pipes and industrial lighting, but also velvet ropes and gleaming bars.

Money and violence, dressed up pretty. The crowd hits me like a wave—bodies pressing, voices layered into a roar, the bass of music I can feel in my teeth. The energy is electric, primal, hungry. We’re in the heart of The Beast, and it’s like walking into a twisted Oz.

I turn to Gabriel. “Holy shit.”

For the first time in two days, something like a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Welcome to my world.”