The ghost of Gabriel’s touch lingers on my skin, his pheromones clinging to my clothes. I dig the heels of my palms into my eye sockets, pushing back the sting of tears.
This is why I don’t let people get close. This is why I keep my walls high and my boundaries clear. When defenses drop, even for a moment, the past comes rushing back in a flood, ready to drown me.
No sound comes from the other side of the door. No footsteps heading for the exit. No creaking of the couch as Gabriel settles in for the night.
Only the quiet of someone waiting.
I reach for the leather case in my nightstand drawer, fingers closing around its familiar shape. Inside awaits a release I can manage rather than relying on someone else.
The case remains unopened in my palm as Gabriel’s words echo in my head.
“Get used to me, because I’m not going anywhere.”
My fingers tighten around the leather, but for reasons I can’t explain even to myself, I return the case to the drawer without opening it.
8
The scent of coffee and bacon pulls me from sleep, foreign and out of place in my barren apartment.
I bolt upright, sheets tangling around my legs, my heart hammering. The clock on my nightstand reads nine thirty-seven in the morning, later than I’ve slept in months.
“Fuck,” I whisper, running a hand through my hair.
The night floods back in fragments of Gabriel on his knees, his hot, skilled mouth around my cock, my control slipping away, followed by panic as I shoved him back, fled to my bedroom, and locked the door between us.
A pan clatters in the kitchen, followed by a muffled curse, and heat crawls up my neck, shame burning beneath my skin.
I’d expected Gabriel to take the rejection and disappear. Not to use my kitchen as if it belongs to him.
My phone sits on the nightstand, screen dark. No messages from Micah. No word from Rowan about last night’s job. The silence should be comforting, but it only amplifies the sounds from the kitchen.
I throw back the sheets and sit up, my bare feet hitting the cold floor as I pull on yesterday’s jeans. No shirt. Let him see the scars on my chest and back. Maybe they’ll scare him off since my actions haven’t, so far.
The smell of breakfast grows stronger as I step into the hallway. Gabriel stands at my tiny stove, spatula in hand, wearing the same black button-down from last night with the sleeves rolled to his elbows. His jacket hangs on the back of a kitchen chair I haven’t used in years.
“Morning,” he says without turning around. “Hope you don’t mind. I found enough food to cobble together breakfast.”
I cross my arms over my bare chest. “What part oflast night made you think you were welcome to hang around this morning?”
“No car, remember? And you never told me to get out.” He flips a strip of bacon. “You gave me the choice of sleeping on the couch or leaving.”
“So you chose the couch.”
He tips his chin toward the lumpy furniture, where a folded blanket sits on one armrest, a pillow stacked on top.
His casual comfort in my space sets my skin itching. He doesn’t fit in here among the water stains and bare walls with his designer clothes and easy smile. And yet he moves around my kitchen as if he belongs there, pulling plates from cabinets he had no right to explore.
“Your coffee is on the counter,” he adds, gesturing with the spatula.
A mug steams next to the sink, black and strong, exactly the way I take it.
My stomach twists with hunger and anger in equal measure as I grab the mug, the heat bleeding into my palm. “This doesn’t change anything.”
Gabriel turns to me, his hazel eyes trailing over my bare torso. He bypasses the scars scattered across my skin and the fresh bruises on my ribs, tracing the lines of muscle with appreciation instead of pity.
“Breakfast doesn’t have to change the world, Saint.” He slides eggs onto two plates. “It’s protein and calories.”
My name in his mouth sends a pulse of heat through me that has nothing to do with the coffee.
