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She’d buried herself under my skin and cutting her out would hurt like a bitch.
CHAPTERTHIRTY-THREE
Gabe drove me home in silence, the whir of the engine and the hum of the tires on the asphalt the only sounds that filled the air.
His hands were gripping and loosening on the steering wheel in a silent rhythm as if he were waging an internal war. I watched his knuckles turn white, then his hands relax again. He opened his mouth again, then snapped it shut, fighting the urge to say something.
I looked out of the window, wishing I could just disappear into the night until we arrived at the heavy gate.
I stared at the name engraved into a heavy stone plate on the wall surrounding the property. Villa Caliginis. Did that name mean something, or was it just a random street name?
The gate whirred open, and we made our way up the narrow gravel driveway heading up straight to the villa.
He parked the car and shut off the engine but remained seated.
I made a move to open the door, but he stopped me. The expression on his face was intense. “I’m sorry.”
I sighed.
“Let me take care of you,” he said.
“Okay,” I said, shocked at the frailness in my voice.
He needed it as much as I did.
I watched him walk around the car, open my door. I took his hand as he led me inside and upstairs into his room.
Without a word, he helped me take off the dress. I felt heat radiating from his hands as he carefully undid the buttons on the side, warming my cold body.
So cold.
I was so aware of him, of the way he was looking at me, his eyebrows narrowed. His eyes full of worry and concern.
His hands tenderly brushed against my skin.
He was gentle—achingly so—handled me as if I were a horse that would bolt any minute.
He understood I was still in shock.
Was I still in shock?
Killing was part of his life. Part of my father’s life, as well.
I’d always known.
Though I’d never experienced it up close.
Had never watched the life drain out of someone and felt it so viscerally.
When the dress was off, he looked at me one more time before taking a step back. For a moment, neither of us said a word. He simply stood there, his gaze fixed on me before he turned away and walked into the bathroom.
I watched him leave, feeling a strange mixture of sadness and relief.
He turned on the shower, then came back for me, urged me in wordlessly before following.
The steam swirled around us, cloaking us in uneasy silence, almost suffocating us as we stood there in the humid heat.
He washed me so slowly as if I was fragile glass, like that first night together—but this time, his touch felt strangely detached, distant—as if there was a layer between my skin and his hands.
