Page 27 of The Beast

“I am.”

“He’s not going to want to see you.”

“He seemed fine with it last night.”

Her brows rise, and I take a tiny bit of satisfaction in surprising her. And in wondering if she and Gabe are a thing. Back off, bitch. He’s mine.

Harper glances my way and raises a brow—a silent order to behave. She really does know me too well.

“Bottom line,” Harper says, “we want to see him. Both of us.”

Her mouth twists, but she says nothing, just turns her attention toward the man who’s now striding across the lobby toward us. He’s mid-fifties, broad-shouldered, with a kind of weathered handsomeness. His eyes are fixed on me with an intensity that makes me want to take a step back.

“Anissa.” His voice is low. Gravelly. “What’s going on?”

“Hey, Dad. Visitors for Gabriel.” She stresses the name. “Old friends.”

It’s subtle, but I catch the way his jaw tightens. “He’s training. Doesn’t want to be disturbed.”

“I know.” Anissa meets his gaze. “But I think he’ll want to see Harper.”

Travis looks at Harper—really looks at her. Something in his expression shifts. “You’re the one from the pictures. The trio.”

Harper nods, her throat working, probably in an effort to hold back tears. I’m not surprised. I’ve heard approximately eight billion stories about the fun and mischief Gabe, Elliott, and Harper got into back in the day.

Travis turns his attention to me, his eyes as flat as his expression. There’s a long pause, then he sighs. “He’s going to ream my ass.”

Anissa shrugs. “Won’t be the first time.”

Travis almost smiles. Almost. Then he jerks his head toward the back hallway. “Come on. But I’m warning you—he’s in a mood.”

“He’s been in a mood for five years,” Anissa murmurs as we follow. “At this point, I think we can just call it his personality.”

The Beast is everything I remember from last night—the exposed brick, the amber lighting, the distant thump of music, and the muffled roar of a crowd. But in the daylight hours, it feels different. Less like a noir film, more like a gym. Men wrap their hands with tape. Heavy bags swing from chains. The smell of sweat and leather fills the air.

And there, in a roped-off ring at the center of the room, is Gabriel.

He’s shirtless, his back to us, but I see his reflection in a wide mirror. Three puckered marks on his chest and torso set against a canvas of hard, scarred skin. I stifle a shiver and blink back tears. Bullet wounds.

And that’s not all. A web of faded lines stretches across his back at his shoulders. More scars, and they’re like a map of pain.

I blink even more fiercely, determined to hold my tears at bay.

“Oh, god,” Harper says, taking my hand as we gape at the show. Except it’s not a show. It’s real—every punch hitting flesh, sometimes drawing blood. He’s sparring with a man twice his size, but he’s winning. Gabe moves with a brutal grace that steals my breath. Every punch is controlled. Precise. Devastating.

This is a man who’ll never be a victim again. A man who doesn’t need a gun because he’s the fucking weapon.

Harper makes a small sound beside me, and I squeeze her hand.

To my right, Travis clears his throat. “Hey, Savage?”

Behind us, Anissa whispers, “He uses the name Lyon Savage here. Well, that or The Beast. And he is going to be so pissed.”

Gabriel lands one more punch—sending his opponent reeling—then he turns. His eyes find Harper first, and for one breathless second, his whole face changes. The ice cracks. Something raw and unguarded breaks through.

“Harper?” His voice is hoarse. “What the hell are you doing here?”

She’s already moving, ducking under the ropes, throwing herself at him. He catches her automatically, his arms wrapping around her, and for a moment, he simply holds on. Eyes closed. Jaw tight. Like he’s afraid she’ll disappear if he lets go.