Not to Zach. Not to the Brotherhood. Not to whatever secrets are buried in her mother's past.
She's mine.
And I protect what's mine.
No matter what it costs.
Sleep finally claims me sometime after two, my arms still wrapped around her, my mind still churning through possibilities and threats.
The last thing I'm aware of before consciousness fades is the warmth of her body against mine, the steady rhythm of her heartbeat, the faint new sweetness of her scent that I can't explain.
Something is changing.
I just don't know what yet.
Chapter 23 - Poppy
I wake to the sound of my own retching.
One moment I'm asleep, wrapped in Gabriel's arms, and the next I'm stumbling toward the bathroom, barely making it to the toilet before my stomach turns itself inside out. I grip the cold porcelain and heave, my body convulsing with a violence that leaves me shaking.
There's nothing in my stomach—I barely ate dinner last night—but that doesn't stop the nausea. It rolls through me in waves, relentless and merciless, until I'm gasping for breath on the marble floor.
"Poppy?"
Gabriel's voice, rough with sleep, comes from the doorway. I didn't hear him get up, didn't hear him follow me. Of course I didn't. He moves like a shadow, like a predator, silent even when he's not trying to be.
"I'm fine," I manage, though my voice comes out thin and ragged. "Just—give me a minute."
He doesn't give me a minute. He crosses the bathroom in three strides and crouches beside me, his hand cool against my clammy forehead.
"You're burning up."
"I'm not. I'm fine. It's just—" Another wave hits, and I lurch back toward the toilet, heaving up nothing but bile and shame.
His hand moves to my back, rubbing slow circles between my shoulder blades. The gesture is surprisingly gentle, surprisingly tender. It doesn't fit with the man who tied me to hisbed last night, who fucked me until I couldn't remember my own name.
"This has been happening for days," he says. Not a question.
"It's stress. Or something I ate. Or—"
"Don't." His voice is quiet but firm. "Don't lie to me, Poppy. Not about this."
I close my eyes, pressing my forehead against the cool rim of the toilet. He knows. Or he suspects, at least. He's too observant not to have noticed the signs—the nausea, the fatigue, the strange food cravings, the way my body has been changing in small but unmistakable ways.
But he doesn't know for certain. And neither do I.
"I need to go out today," I say, changing the subject. "I'm meeting Bea for lunch. I've been putting her off for weeks."
A pause. I can feel him studying me, weighing my words against what he knows, what he suspects, what he's trying to figure out.
"Fine," he says finally. "James will drive you."
"I know."
He helps me to my feet, steadies me when I sway, guides me back to bed with a solicitousness that feels foreign coming from him. I lie down and close my eyes, waiting for him to say something else—to push, to demand, to assert the control he usually wields so easily.
Instead, he just pulls the covers over me and presses a kiss to my forehead.
