But before Gabriel could strike the man to finally get the information he needed, footsteps dragged against the cobbles. He turned, only to see four men filing out of the pub. A knife glinted in the lamplight.
“Is this your backup?” Gabriel sneered.
The viscount shook his head frantically. “I-I do not know them! Please—please, Your Grace, think of your wife?—”
“Oh, I am.”
And then Gabriel barreled into the men, not willing to give them even an inch.
Sibyl and Nicholas had been right; he had not boxed in a long time. He had enough pent-up, wild emotions that he could now unleash on these men who thought they could beat him.
No.
For Sibyl, Gabriel would fight until he could not lift his arms, until he could not take another breath. He was hurting her, he knew, but he would make sure that she remained safe forever. If this was what it took, then so be it.
The knife slashed, and he leapt back, narrowly avoiding it. The blade cut through his coat, and he felt the sting of the blow, but he was already punching one of the others, ensuring he went down and stayed down long enough for him to hoist the man with the knife into the air.
The weapon dropped, and Gabriel snatched it up, letting his rage take over.
You must be enough. You must be enough. No one will hurt my wife ever again.
“You,” he laughed darkly, “have not caught me in a forgiving mood.”
He pressed the blade to the man’s throat, relishing his whimpers. But then, he pocketed the knife and punched him to the ground.
Even then, he did not stop. His fists moved of their own accord, punching and punching, lost to his fury and the need to eliminate every threat against Sibyl.
Eventually, he staggered backward, panting, the ache from the minor blows he had taken registering slowly.
Lord Berrington had not left. Instead, he stood behind an empty crate, shaking. “I-I will call the authorities!” he yelled.
Gabriel hummed. “Do it. But when they arrive, I will speak first, and I am certain they will be more interested in your shady dealings than a mere street brawl.” His lip curled in disgust before he started walking away. “We will have that meeting, Berrington. Do not be a fool next time.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Sibyl had been simmering in her anger and distress all evening when the heavy footsteps outside her door signaled her husband’s return.
“Do not even consider walking past my chambers,” she called out. “Not now. Not after you have ignored me for two weeks.”
Gabriel paused outside, his shadow visible through the gap between the floor and the door. Finally, he pushed it open and walked in.
Sibyl gasped, her stomach sinking as she scrambled to her feet. Gabriel’s mouth opened, but she glared at him, silencing him.
“What has happened?” she demanded, taking in the bruise at the side of his eye, the tear in his coat, and the cut on his ribs. Blood seeped into the fabric, and she could see him trying hard not to wince from pain. “Gabriel, what are you doing?”
Her voice had softened, her helplessness rising as she cupped his face. It felt like an eternity before he met her eyes.
“Nothing,” was all he said.
“I know now that there is no such thing asnothingwith you,” she whispered. “Here, let me tend to your wound.”
“I am fine, Sibyl,” Gabriel sighed, as though she irked him.
Sibyl swallowed past the hurt and pulled him to her bathing chamber. He let her, and she pushed him against the washstand before gathering some supplies.
“You cared for me when I was injured,” she told him, “so let me do the same for you.”
Gabriel’s jaw worked, his hair almost covering the bruise near his eye, but Sibyl brushed it back.
