Chapter 8 - Scars Under Midnight Silk—Tending to the Monster Who Protected Me
The alarms in the Grand Plaza Hotel went off thirty minutes later.
Mateo successfully extracted the encrypted hard drive containing Vane’s syndicate ledgers and the original provenance documents for my father’s missing masterpiece, The Madonna of the Shadows. But as we made our escape through the underground parking garage, Vane’s elite enforcers ambushed our convoy.
A hail of bullets shattered the concrete pillars. Gabriel shielded my body with his own, returning fire with deadly accuracy while Mateo drove the armored SUV through the security barricades.
During the exchange, a high-caliber round grazed Gabriel’s side, tearing through his tuxedo jacket and the flesh over his ribs.
By the time we returned to the safety of Blackwood Manor at three in the morning, Gabriel was losing blood, though he refused to let Mateo call the estate physician.
“It’s a scratch,” Gabriel grunted, sitting on the edge of the large leather sofa in his private quarters, his shirt soaked in crimson.
“Shut up, Gabriel,” I said firmly, marching into the room with a medical kit, antiseptic, and sterile gauze.
He looked up at me, surprised by my sharp tone, but he didn't protest as I knelt beside him.
With gentle, steady hands—hands trained to restore centuries-old, fragile masterpieces—I cut away his ruined shirt. When the fabric fell away, my breath caught in my throat.
Gabriel’s torso was a roadmap of violence and survival. Long, faded knife scars crossed his ribs, and the distinct puckered mark of an old gunshot wound rested near his shoulder. And now, a fresh, jagged laceration bled steadily along his side.
“You’ve been fighting your entire life,” I whispered, dipping a cotton pad into the antiseptic.
“In my world, you fight or you end up like Spencer,” Gabriel replied, his voice tight as the antiseptic touched the open wound. He didn't flinch, his eyes remaining locked onto my face.
“Hold still,” I murmured, cleaning the blood carefully before applying antibiotic ointment and preparing the suture kit.
As I stitched the wound closed with precise, delicate movements, the silence in the room grew heavy with an electric, undeniable tension. I could feel his heartbeat—strong, rhythmic, and rapid—beneath my fingertips.
When I finished wrapping the clean white gauze around his ribs, I didn't pull away. My hands remained resting against the warm, solid planes of his chest.
Gabriel reached up, his large, calloused hand gently cupping my cheek. His thumb stroked my cheekbone, wiping away a stray smudge of dust.
“Why did you save me at the gala, Gabriel?” I asked softly, my voice barely above a whisper. “You could have bought the ledger from Vane. You could have ignored Spencer’s debt.”
“Because the first day you looked at me in your studio,” Gabriel said, his thumb brushing across my lower lip, “you didn't see a mob boss. You didn't see billions of dollars. You saw a man who needed patience. And for the first time in thirty-two years, I wanted to be that man for someone.”
Tears welled in my eyes. The fear, the trauma, and the sheer relief of the past few days seemed to melt away under his touch.
“Gabriel...”
He didn't let me finish. He pulled me gently forward, closing the distance between us, and pressed his lips to mine.
May you like
The kiss was fierce, possessive, and filled with a desperate, burning passion that made my entire body hum with heat. I tangled my fingers in his dark hair, pulling him closer, surrendering completely to the safety and fire of his embrace.
In that dark, quiet room, surrounded by enemies and secrets, I knew I was no longer running. I was right where I belonged.
Related Stories
