He tugs sharply, pulling me back toward him. I could resist. I could pull free and gather my clothes and walk out the door. He wouldn't stop me—not physically, anyway.
But I don't resist.
I let him draw me back into the bed, back against his body, back into the warmth of his arms. He rolls me beneath him, settling his weight over me, pinning my wrists above my head with one hand. His eyes are fully alert now, dark and hungry.
"Stay," he says. Not a question. Not quite a command. Something in between.
"Gabriel—"
"Stay."
I stay.
What happens next is like the night before—hard, demanding, edged with darkness. He doesn't ask permission. He takes what he wants, and my body responds like it was made for this, for him, for the bruising grip of his hands and the relentless drive of his hips. I hate how easily I shatter beneath him. I hate how much I want it.
I hate that I'm already dreading the moment it ends.
Afterward, we lie tangled together in the ruined sheets, our breathing slowly returning to normal. The light through the windows has shifted from silver to gold—morning now, properly morning. I've been here all night.
"Tell me about your grandmother," he says.
The question startles me. I turn my head to look at him, expecting mockery or manipulation, but his expression is surprisingly open. Curious.
"What?"
"Your grandmother. The one whose grave you visit with dying flowers." He traces a finger along my collarbone, casual and possessive. "Tell me about her."
I shouldn't answer. I should maintain some boundaries, keep some part of myself separate from whatever this is. But the question feels oddly safe compared to everything else, and I find myself speaking anyway.
"Her name was Bertha. My mother's mother." I stare at the ceiling, letting the memories surface. "She practically raised me, the first few years. While my mom was working, trying to keep us afloat. Grandma Bertha was the one who taught me about flowers."
"The dying ones?"
"All of them. But yes, especially the dying ones." A smile tugs at my lips despite everything. "She used to say that people throw away flowers the moment they start to fade, but that's when they're most interesting. When they're letting go of what they were and becoming something else."
"Morbid," Gabriel observes, but there's no judgment in his tone.
"Maybe. Or maybe she just saw beauty in things other people overlooked." I pause. "She had dementia at the end. Didn't recognize anyone, not even my mom. But whenever I brought her flowers—even wilted ones, especially wilted ones—she'd smile. Like she remembered something she couldn't put into words."
Gabriel is quiet for a moment. His hand has stilled on my collarbone, fingers resting against my pulse.
"Is that why you keep them?" he asks. "The dying flowers in your apartment?"
"You noticed those."
"I notice everything about you."
The words should be creepy. They are creepy—a reminder of the surveillance, the stalking, the systematic invasion of my privacy. But the way he says them, low and intent, makes something flutter in my chest that has nothing to do with fear.
"Yes," I admit. "I keep them because of her. Because she taught me to see beauty in decay."
"And the dahlia? The one I left you?"
I don't answer. I can't answer. Because the truth is too complicated, too shameful—that I kept his flower for the same reason I kept my grandmother's, that some part of me saw beauty in the darkness he offered before I even understood what it was.
He doesn't push. Instead, he shifts, propping himself up on one elbow to look down at me.
"Tell me about the serpent," he says.
