The doors slide open to a wide hallway lined with thick burgundy carpet. Two security personnel stand at attention near the elevator bank, monitoring the corridor. They neither speak nor approach, keeping a careful distance.
“This way.” Gabriel guides us to the right.
We move down the hall at a pace set by injury rather than urgency. The carpet swallows our footsteps, sealing us into a quiet broken by Gabriel’s ragged breathing. The pain medication he refused downstairs shows in the rigid line of his back and the tension locked into his jaw.
Three doors down, he pauses before a set of double doors to scan his fingerprint. It beeps once before the lock disengages. He pushes the door open with his good shoulder, revealing darkness beyond.
“Lights, forty percent,” he commands as we cross the threshold.
Warm illumination blooms from recessed fixtures, revealing a spacious living area with floor-to-ceiling windows that look out over the estate grounds. The deep leather couch, two armchairs, and coffee table of polished wood speak of comfort rather than riches. A doorway to the right leads to what must be the bedroom, while another on the left opens to a small dining nook and home office.
The door closes behind us with a solid click, followed by the mechanical sound of locks engaging. One, two, three separate mechanisms slide into place, securing us from the outside world.
I should feel trapped. Cornered. My body should be screaming to find the exits, to map escape routes, to never leave my back to the door.
Instead, I relax for the first time in days.
Gabriel moves to a panel on the wall, tapping a sequence that causes the windows to darken, preventing anyone outside from seeing in while still giving us a view. The city lights glitter in the distance, separated from us by acres of manicured Rockford property.
“No one can get in without permission,” he says. “Not even family.”
“Good.” The word falls from my lips before I can consider its implications.
Gabriel turns to me. “Shower, then bed.”
The doctor had done basic cleanup to see to our wounds, but it left both of us reeking of antiseptic, layered over the metallic tang of blood that no amount of medical cleaning could remove. And beneath it all lingers fear, cold sweat, and violence, the potent cocktail clinging to our skin like a second layer.
I follow as he leads us toward a door on the far side of the bedroom. My legs move on autopilot, muscles pulled during the fight with Winters protesting from sitting too long while doctors cleaned and stitched the deeper cuts.
Gabriel flicks on the light in the bathroom to reveal marble floors that radiate heat, a double vanity with mirrors that stretch to the ceiling, and a glass-walled shower large enough for four people, not just the two Gabriel promised.
He moves to the shower, turning knobs with his good hand. Water cascades from a rainfall head mounted in the ceiling, steam rising. He struggles one-handed with the buttons of his shirt, fabric catching on the edges of his sling.
Without asking, I step forward and brush his fingers aside. “Let me.”
He stills, allowing my hands to take over the task.I work down the line of buttons, revealing more bandages beneath, white gauze taped across his ribs where Darrow’s boot connected multiple times. Purple bruises spread outward from the dressing like ink in water.
I ease the strap over his head with careful movements, watching him for signs of pain. His features tighten, but he remains silent as I remove the support, freeing his injured arm. The shirt slides from his shoulders next, fabric catching on the bandage at the back of his neck.
“Can you manage the rest?” I ask.
“Yeah.” Gabriel’s hands move to his belt.
I turn away to give him privacy, focusing on my own clothes. My fingers fumble with zippers and buttons, clumsy with exhaustion. Each layer removed reveals bruised ribs, scraped knuckles, and a burn on my lower back from where Darrow pressed the taser.
Waterproof bandages cover the worst of the wounds, and I peel the gauze off the lesser injuries, knowing they’ll need to be reapplied after I get clean.
By the time I finish, Gabriel has already stepped into the shower. Water sluices down his back, revealing the true extent of damage hidden beneath his clothes and bandages. Bruises paint his skin in purple and blue. A crisscross of scratches marks hisshoulders, shallow enough to avoid stitches but deep enough to sting.
He turns, reaching back with his uninjured arm in a silent invitation.
As I step in behind him, the water hits like tiny needles, temperature hovering just below scalding. It stings the cuts on my hands and the raw skin at my wrists, but the heat seeps into aching muscles with blessed relief.
Steam rises between us, fogging the glass walls. Gabriel turns around, water plastering his hair to his forehead, running in rivulets down the planes of his face.
With a groan, my lips settle over his, tentative at first, then firmer. His mouth tastes of copper and salt, of survival and exhaustion. The kiss lacks the hungry desperation of our previous encounters, replaced by tenderness and hurt not yet healed.
But the connection falters, breaking apart as Gabriel’s legs tremble beneath him. Pain and fatigue claim their due, his body beginning to shut down.
