“Me.” The word falls from my lips before I can catch it. “He tried to tase me in the back alley.”
Gabriel’s head dips, as if he expected this. Which he did. Wealldid, which is why it came as no surprise. “And the envelope?”
Water trickles down my spine, raising goose bumps in its wake. “Please, don’t ask me about it.”
He turns slowly, giving me time to object. His eyes find mine in the steamy bathroom, searching for something I can’t name. Whatever he finds softens his expression, concern replacing the determined set of his jaw.
“Let me help you with this, Saint.” He keeps his distance, still standing between me and the cabinet with my blades, still guarding me from myself. “Whatever it is, whatever hurt you, I can help.”
The adrenaline crash hits me, knees buckling without warning. Gabriel moves forward, catching my arm before I can fall, his grip firm but careful, steadying without constraining.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, his lips brushing my temple.
I push away from Gabriel, snatch the envelope off the counter, and stalk into the living room.
Distance is my only defense now. Distance from the envelope, from Gabriel, and from the memories clawing their way up my throat. The darkness welcomes me back, city lights filtering through the blinds in narrow strips that cut across the floor like prison bars.
“You should go home, rich boy,” I say with forced authority. “Your family’s still looking for you.”
The envelope remains clutched in my hand, damp from the steam, the photograph inside a ticking bomb I can’t disarm. I toss it onto the coffee table, next to the book of Norman Rockwell paintings, one item containing lives I can never have, and the other the horrors I was subjected to.
“The bounty on my head isn’t your problem,” I continue, words spilling out faster than I can control them. “The guy in the alley isn’t your problem. None of this is your responsibility.”
Gabriel follows me, his footsteps quiet on the carpet. “Stop telling me what is and isn’t my concern.”
“Don’t think we’re friends just because I fuckedyou.” My voice hardens, defensive walls rebuilding brick by brick. “We’re nothing to each other.”
“That’s not true,” he says in gentle rebuke, no longer willing to let me put walls between us. “Stop pushing me away.”
I snatch up the sweatpants and faded T-shirt left abandoned on the arm of the couch from laundry day and pull them on with quick, efficient movements. The familiar ritual of dressing gives me seconds to compose myself, to push down the waves of panic still surging beneath my skin.
“Whatever’s in the envelope,” Gabriel says, “is tearing you apart.”
“It’s fine. I handled it.” I straighten, clothed now, armor back in place. “The guy’s dead. End of story.”
Gabriel steps forward, not toward me but toward the envelope on the coffee table, and I lunge forward to snatch it away before he can touch it. The sudden movement sends blood rushing from my head, and the room wobbles.
“Don’t.” The word bursts from my lips, raw with desperation. “Just don’t.”
Gabriel freezes, hands lifting in surrender. “I won’t touch it without your permission. But please talk to me.”
All of my careful control, the box where I stuffed all those memories, begins to fracture beneath the weight of secrets, of years spent running, and they come crashing down all at once. My knees hit the couch, body folding in on itself as the words claw their way out of me.
“Someone hurt me.” The confession scratches at my insides. “Someone who—when I was in juvie?—”
The sentence fractures, words scattering like broken glass. I stare at the floor, unable to bear his pity, disgust, or worst of all, his understanding.
“He worked there.” I lick my dry lips. “A guard. He’d pick out kids with no visitors, no family. Ones who wouldn’t be believed if they toldstories.”
The silence stretches between us, and my uneven breathing fills the room. I force myself to continue, each word ripped from somewhere deep and festering.
“He’d always wait until lights out.” I tap the envelope. “And then he’d—he’d?—”
When the words stick, Gabriel doesn’t push or rush to fill the silence with empty reassurances. He waits, patient in the darkness, waiting for truths too ugly to be rushed.
“No one ever responded to the screams. And if you pretended to like it—” Bile rises, and I choke itdown. “He wouldn’t hurt you as much. If you chose— And now?—”
I thrust the envelope forward, not toward Gabriel but into the empty space between us.
