I can't breathe. The air in the room feels too thick, too heavy, like it's pressing in on my lungs. There's a stone table nearby, marble, obscene, meant to impress men who don't know the cost of anything real. I grab it and tip it over with a sound that feels like a rupture. It crashes to the floor. Marble explodes. The expensive flooring fractures beneath it. I feel nothing.
My fist hits the wall.
Again.
And again.
The pain is sharp, grounding, a clean line through the chaos. Skin splits. Blood runs. I welcome it because it's simple, because it makes sense, because it doesn't lie.
I hear a sound I don't expect. A whimper. Instinctively, I turn. She's staring at me. Not defiant now. Not strategic. Just… small. Her eyes are wide, tears pooling without spilling, like she's watching something she can't understand and is afraid to name.
The doctor has edged closer, cautious, eyes flicking to my knuckles, to the blood dripping onto the floor.
"Your hand—" he begins.
"In the guest room," I snarl, not looking away from her. "Now."
The doctor thinks about saying something else. I can see it. Then he thinks better of it. He guides her away gently, one hand at her elbow, his body instinctively positioning itself between us. His instincts are right.
The door closes.
Soft.
Final.
The silence after is unbearable. I stagger to the bar and pour another bourbon; my hands are shaking now, and the glass rattles against the counter. I drink it like it might drown what's clawing up my throat. It doesn't.
The bottle leaves my hand without conscious thought. It shatters against the wall, glass and liquor spraying like a second, lesser explosion. The glass follows. Then another. The penthouse takes the abuse in silence.
I stand there amid the wreckage, blood dripping from my knuckles, chest heaving like I've run miles instead of standing still. Ten years.
Ten years stolen.
And now the truth is here, bleeding into everything I touch, demanding payment. I press my forehead briefly to the cool wall, jaw clenched so hard it aches. This isn't over. This is the beginning. God help anyone who stands between me and what was taken from me, because nothing is going to survive what comes next.
The door opens without ceremony. Max must have heard the noise and called him, because Gabriel strolls in like he owns the place, jacket half open, posture loose, that familiar swagger like nothing in the world could truly surprise him anymore. He takes one look at the room.
The shattered marble. The glass embedded in the wall. The blood dripping steadily from my knuckles onto the ruined floor. He lifts an eyebrow.
"What?" he asks mildly. "Did you see a mouse or something?"
I stare at him. For a long, suspended moment, I'm ready to tear him apart. My body is still humming with violence, muscles tight, breath ragged, rage looking for somewhere to land. Then something breaks. I laugh. It rips out of me, harsh and ugly and uncontrollable. The kind of laughter that bends you forward at the waist, that scrapes your throat raw, that sounds more like a man choking than anything resembling humor. I laugh until my chest hurts. Until tears sting my eyes. Until the room spins just a little.
Gabe watches me without flinching. Doesn't reach for a weapon. Doesn't crack another joke. He just lets it happen. He's always had that effect on me. When the laughter finally burns itself out, I straighten slowly, wiping a hand across my face. My breath is still uneven. My knuckles still bleed.
Gabe nods once, like this all checks out.
"Rough morning," he wagers.
"You could say that."
He moves closer then, careful but unafraid, his eyes flick briefly to my hand before meeting my gaze again. There's something steady there. Familiar. Earned. We've been through hell together. He dragged me off the asphalt when I was more dead than alive. Kept me breathing when my own family wanted me erased. And when his twin sister was taken—when they found what was left of her—I was by his side as we waded through blood. We distributed vengeance together. Clean. Thorough. Final.
Some bonds don't need words.
He gestures at the wreckage. "Want to tell me what caused this? Or should I guess?"
I exhale slowly, the last of my laughter fades into something heavier.
