“That depends.” I shot him a look over my shoulder. “Are you going to keep moving furniture or just judge my cleaning techniques?”
I expected a smart-ass reply, but he just smiled. Not the predatory kind he used on new patrons or the smug curl of his lips he wore as the Don’s right hand. This was softer, something that felt like a secret passed between just the two of us. Helooked at me like he was trying to figure out if I was beautiful or dangerous.
I’m both, you moron.
We worked in silence for a bit, moving around each other as if we'd been doing this for years. I scraped candle wax off a side table with a razor blade; he refilled the sanitizer and handed me microfiber cloths when my supply ran low. Every so often, I’d catch his gaze in the mirrored wall, studying me with that odd intensity, and every time I looked away first.
The awkwardness slowly smoothed itself out, replaced by a kind of odd comfort. We still sniped at each other, but it no longer felt like a duel. I found myself wanting to be near him in a way that was as scary as it was exciting.
I tried to focus on the work, on the streaks on the glass, the stubborn smudge on the leather, the sticky residue left by someone’s spilled drink. But my mind kept circling back to him. Gavriel, who had been raised to be a weapon and yet was, in moments like this, just a guy sweating in a T-shirt, complaining about the mundane things.
Eventually, the room was as spotless as it had ever been. Gavriel set down the bottle of cleaner and stretched, rolling his shoulders with a satisfied grunt. “Mission accomplished,” he declared.
I surveyed the space, suddenly reluctant to leave. “You missed a spot,” I told him, pointing at a faint smear on the mirror.
He groaned, but when he bent to wipe it, I pounced, smearing a handprint right above his. He looked up and caught the reflection of my shit-eating grin. “Oh, you are going to pay for that, Goddess.”
It escalated quickly. He lunged, I dodged, and within seconds we were locked in a full-blown, no-holds-barred fight, using pillows and whatever we could find as weapons. Feathers exploded from a seam in one of the pillows, flitting through theair like confetti. I shrieked when he caught me by the waist, twisting out of his grip only to land on the chaise in a tangle of limbs and laughter.
For a moment, all the darkness that haunted us, the vendetta, the violence, it all evaporated. There was nothing but the warmth of his body pressed to mine, the wild, reckless joy of being seen and wanted and understood.
He pinned me, arms caging me. His face was inches from mine, breath hot and uneven. I could see the small scars along his jaw, the freckle near his left eye, the faint tremor in his hands.
"You win," he said, voice low and rough. "But only on a technicality."
I laughed, the sound reverberating off the walls. “You’re a terrible loser, Pretty Boy.”
He didn’t reply. Instead, he just looked at me, really looked, as if committing my face to memory in the half-light.
I wanted to kiss him, or punch him, or both. I wanted to tell him that he was the only person who made me feel alive anymore, that I hated how much I needed him, that I wished he hadn’t killed my father, even as I understood exactly why he had. Then I did something incredibly stupid. “Kiss me, Pretty Boy.” This was madness, pure, self-destructive madness, but I couldn't bring myself to care. The rational part of my brain screamed about revenge and justice and the blood on his hands, but it was drowned out by the need pulsing through me.
His eyes darkened, pupils dilating as his head lowered slowly, giving me every chance to change my mind, to push him away. Instead, I lifted my chin, meeting him halfway. When our lips touched, it wasn't the explosive collision it had often been in our sessions. No, this was gentle, almost reverent.
My hands found their way to his shoulders, feeling the solid muscle beneath his shirt. Slowly, I pulled back, studying his face.His expression was open, vulnerable in a way I'd never seen before. This wasn't the cold-blooded enforcer or the obedient Pretty Boy. This was just Gavriel, raw and unguarded.
I wrapped my arms around his back and held on as tight as I dared.
He held me back, fierce and unyielding, his heartbeat thundering against my ribs.
We stayed there for a long time, neither of us speaking, letting the silence do what words never could.
When he finally let go, his hands lingered on my shoulders, thumbs tracing lazy circles on my skin. His eyes searched mine, and I saw something there that I couldn’t name, desperation maybe, or just the raw ache of someone who had never been allowed to want anything without consequence.
"You know," he whispered, "this has actually been . . . really fun. Regardless of us having to do all the cleaning."
I smiled, but it was brittle at the edges. "Yeah."
He let out a soft laugh, and for a second we were just two idiots in a room full of toys and feather-strewn velvet. I wanted to freeze the moment, to stay suspended in this ridiculous, tender limbo forever. I knew it wouldn’t last. Tomorrow would come, and with it the obligations, the guilt, and the blood. But for now, I let myself rest my head on his chest and closed my eyes, breathing in the sharp, clean smell of him and the faint, lingering trace of wax.
His arms tightened around me, and I felt his lips press against the top of my head. I let out a shaky exhale as we just held each other on the chaise, ignoring our pasts.
He was staring off into the dark ceiling, his jaw set, his expression halfway between a smile and a grimace. There was a kind of nakedness to him at that moment, all his masks left on the floor with the feathers and dust.
Breaking the silence, I said softly, “Come on, let’s get this cleaned up.”
Chapter 26
Themomentshewalkedin, it was like someone had sucked all the oxygen from the room. Elin. Fucking hell.
