Page 52 of The Beast

Chapter Seventeen

The door closed behind them, and Gabriel was alone.

No. Not alone. Never alone. He was with the ghosts. With her face on the wall. With five years of certainty that was starting to crack like ice in spring.

He crossed to the bar. Poured another whiskey. Didn’t drink it.

I still love you, Gabriel. I never stopped.

He closed his eyes, but that just made it worse. Made him see her face when she said it—not defiance, not calculation. Something raw. Something that looked like truth.

But he’d been fooled by that face before. By the daughter who’d turned out to be so very like her father.

Slowly, he moved to sit on the sofa. He tossed back the whiskey, then closed his eyes as the memories pressed against him, pushing forward.

They came whether he wanted them to or not.

Today…well, today maybe he wanted them. Maybe, just maybe, he’d find her in his memories. And maybe what she said would be true. Maybe she hadn’t betrayed him.

He didn’t believe, but he did still hope.

And so he kept his eyes closed as the tide of memories dragged him back into the deep.

Five years ago.

His apartment in Manhattan.

Morning light streaming through the windows.

Izzy curled against him, her hair spread across his chest, one hand tracing lazy patterns on his skin.

“Your birthday’s next month,” she murmured. “What do you want to do?”

“Surprise me.”

She lifted her head, those mismatched eyes—one green, one blue—sparkling with mischief. “A surprise party? You hate parties. For that matter, you hate surprises.”

“I hate parties my father throws. Parties where I have to schmooze investors and pretend I give a damn about quarterly projections.” He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “But a party you throw? With people I like?” He pulled her closer. “That I could handle. And—this is how sneaky I am—now it won’t be a surprise.”

She laughed. “Oh, it will be. I just have my work cut out for me.” She was already scheming—he could see it in her eyes.

“I’m going to go completely overboard. You know that, right? There will be balloons. Possibly a theme. And,” she added in a doomsday voice, “there will be games.”

“As long as you’re there.” He pressed a kiss to her forehead. “That’s all I want. Just you.”

“You’re disgustingly romantic.”

“Your fault. You ruined me.”

She laughed—that sweet laugh he’d fallen in love with, bright and real and completely unguarded. “Good. You needed to be ruined. You were too broody before. Someone had to fix you.”

He rolled her beneath him, pinning her wrists above her head. “Fix me, huh?”

“Mmm.” She arched up against him. “Extensive repairs required. Might take years.”

“I’ve got years.” He kissed her then—slow and deep and full of everything he couldn’t say. That he loved her. That he wanted those years. That he’d already talked to a jeweler about a ring.

That she was the only person in his life who made him feel like he could be something other than what his father raised him to be.