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He sucks in a breath, and his forehead rests against mine. His free hand goes to the back of my neck, holding me there, steady, solid.
“So was I,” he whispers, shocking me enough that I flinch.
Misinterpreting my surprise for pain, he hisses out a curse. His fingers give me a gentle squeeze. “You’re safe, Sophie. This will never happen again.”
“I know.” I take a shaky breath as I close my eyes and breath in his scent. “You keep your people safe.”
“I look out for my people.” His lips ghost over my unmarred cheek, the touch so light I might have imagined it. Only I didn’t. I feel it to my toes. It hums along my skin even as he pulls back slightly to look me in the eye. “I protect what’s mine.”
* * *
Gabriel
* * *
It takes me too bloody long to get away. Too long, holding in the rage, breathing like a normal man, talking like a calm one. By the time I head out into the back alley, my hands are shaking so badly, I can barely open the door.
Warm, muggy air slaps heavy against my skin. I draw in a breath, smell the sour stench of garbage and the musky fug of wet cobbles. Doesn’t matter. I breathe in again, slow, long. Dizziness threatens, and I lean against the slimy back wall of the theater.
My suit will be ruined. People will notice.
I don’t sodding care. Not anymore.
Staring up at the bleak, orange light flickering by the door, I wonder who the hell I am now. Scottie is crumbling. The cracks of his venerable armor are appearing over my weary body. And Gabriel? Only one person calls me that name anymore. Only one person makes me feel like a man of tender flesh and not a cold machine. And I let her down.
The image of Sophie’s battered face fills my mind. The way that fucking cockwomble bashed her with his elbow. Twice. Before I could get to her.
My heart beats so hard, my shirt trembles. Again, I am short of breath, struggling to get enough in my tight lungs. The ground beneath me tilts and rolls. I’m going to be sick.
Two rapid steps have me hunched over a rubbish bin. I retch until there’s nothing left. Until my throat burns.
Fuck, I hate that it takes me an eternity to stand straight, and that even when I do, my head throbs, feels both too heavy and too light. I hate that my hand still shakes as I take the silk handkerchief from my breast pocket to wipe my mouth.
Warm wetness rolls along my lip. The white silk handkerchief is stained crimson. Another nosebleed. My fingers go cold. I think of Mum when she faded—the dizziness, fainting spells, nose bleeds.
Another wave of cold washes through me.
The titter of feminine laughter rings through the night. Little snatches of conversation bleeds in and out—how hot Jax was during his solo, how this one prefers watching Whip beat his drums, the other wants to have Killian’s love child. Concertgoers leaving the show, enjoying themselves. They’re calling this the best night of their lives.
I helped bring it to them. These girls will never know that, or care. As it should be. But the pride I feel in knowing I brought them a bit of happiness is there all the same.
If I’m gone, someone else will do the job. But will they do it as well? Will they watch out for my boys and make certain everything runs like silk? Or will they think only of their own gain?
The fact that there are no guarantees chafes.
Laughter rings out again, husky, unfettered femininity. It reminds me of Sophie’s laugh, though hers always has a tinge of self-deprecation to it, as though she’s part of the joke, never ridiculing.
I’ve never been one to freely laugh and often found those who did rather annoying. Life isn’t a joke—not for me. And yet I want to swim in the sound of Sophie’s laughter, let it cleanse me and wash away all the heaviness in my life.
I don’t know how to ask for that, or even how to let myself ask.
I called her mine. She’ll want an explanation for that. I’ve none to give. It just is. Whether I fuck her or not, it doesn’t matter; she has me now. Even if she doesn’t want me.
A text buzzes on my phone.
Brenna: Car is here. Where the hell are you?
The idea of sitting in a car with Brenna, Jules, and Sophie while I stink of vomit and most likely have blood smears on my face, makes my mouth sour even more. I don’t have the imagination to come up with a plausible excuse for my appearance, nor do I want to lie—or tell the truth.
But lie I do. My thumb types out a quick message.
