Chapter 9 - Healing the Scars
We arrived back at the Montgomery penthouse under heavy armed escort. The entire building had been locked down by thirty private tactical operators.
Marcus had been rushed to the private Moretti surgical clinic, and Harold Vance was already coordinating with federal authorities to lock down every port and airfield in Illinois.
Inside Gabriel’s master suite, the fire crackled in the hearth, casting long, dancing shadows across the mahogany walls.
Gabriel sat on the edge of the large leather sofa, his shirt removed, his broad chest and back exposed to the firelight.
I stood between his knees, holding a basin of warm antiseptic water and clean gauze.
His body was a map of brutal history. Across his left shoulder and ribcage ran three jagged, purple scars where the bullets had torn through him in Milan. Across his right thigh, a massive surgical graft marked the extensive reconstruction of his shattered femur and nerves.
Every single scar was a physical testament to the life he had saved—the brother who had just tried to have him murdered on Lower Wacker Drive.
I dipped the gauze into the antiseptic and gently pressed it against a deep graze on his shoulder where the bullet had scraped his skin during the ambush.
Gabriel flinched slightly, his muscles tightening like steel cables beneath my touch.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered softly. “Does it hurt?”
Gabriel looked up at me. In the firelight, the dark, forbidding billionaire was gone. His eyes were wide, vulnerable, and completely unguarded.
“No,” he murmured, his voice low and raspy. “Physical pain is an old friend, Claire. It doesn't bother me anymore.”
“It should bother you,” I said, gently dabbing the wound with fresh ointment before applying a sterile bandage. “You spend your whole life taking bullets for people who don't deserve you. You let Luke use you as a shield. You let this city think you’re a monster, when the only thing you’ve ever done is bleed for everyone else.”
Gabriel caught my wrist.
His grip wasn't harsh; it was warm, trembling with a restrained intensity that made my breath hitch in my throat.
“I am no saint, Claire,” he whispered, his dark eyes searching mine with overwhelming hunger. “I took you from your life. I forced you into this contract.”
“You saved my family from Dante Marcone,” I replied, stepping closer, my free hand resting gently against the side of his neck, feeling the rapid, heavy pulse beneath his skin. “And you saved my brother’s life. You gave me choices when Luke gave me lies.”
Gabriel pulled me closer, his voice dropping into a breathless murmur. “When I saw you standing at the altar yesterday… looking at me with so much horror… it was the first time in five years that I wished I wasn't the man I am. I wished I was whole. I wished I was someone who could have courted you properly, without contracts, without debts, without blood.”
My heart hammered against my ribs. The anger, the betrayal, the grief of the last two days melted away in the heat of his gaze.
I reached up and gently traced the jagged scar along his jawline with my fingertips.
“You are whole, Gabriel,” I whispered. “And you are ten times the man your brother could ever dream of being.”
Gabriel’s hand moved to the back of my neck, his long fingers tangling into my damp hair. He pulled me down slowly, giving me every second to pull away.
I didn't pull away.
I closed the distance and pressed my lips against his.
The kiss began with a tentative, electric hesitation, then ignited into a fierce, desperate passion born of survival, adrenaline, and undeniable attraction. Gabriel groaned into my mouth, pulling me firmly onto his lap, his arms wrapping around my waist like iron bands.
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For the first time in my life, I wasn't being managed, vetted, or bartered.
I was being held by a man who would burn the world to keep me safe.
