Page 122 of The Beast

Chapter Thirty-Five

Gabriel Grimm had ridden in this elevator to the Grimm Tower penthouse a million times and was certain it had never once moved this slowly.

He gave the polished interior a hard kick as he stared at the climbing numbers and tried to figure out what the hell he was going to say. He’d never been good at apologies. Never had to be.

He was a Grimm, after all. And the Grimm men didn’t apologize—they maneuvered, strategized, outplayed their opponents until they were the ones saying sorry.

Gabriel knew that well. He’d been his father’s favorite. The bright and shiny heir. The one that had the family’s friends trembling—and their enemies pissing themselves.

And none of that mattered.

Isabella wasn’t an opponent he could out-maneuver. And it damn sure wasn’t a game he could win with strategy.

The number climbed. Forty-two. Forty-three.

He’d called Leo on the way over, just to confirm she’d arrived safely. She had, and Leo left her alone to chase a lead on Sterling’s location. He and Mina had been away from the Monarch for days now, and the lead was hot. Hopefully, it would go somewhere, but Sterling was slippery enough that Gabe doubted they’d get that lucky so soon.

Harper was also crashing at the penthouse, but Leo said she’d be gone until morning. Some sort of work crisis had sent her off to Manhattan.

All of which meant Isabella was alone there. She was safe—Grimm security around the residence was top-notch—but that didn’t mean she was settled. She was probably stewing in the same toxic cocktail of anger and hurt that had been churning through Gabriel’s gut since she’d walked out.

Forty-seven. Forty-eight.

He watched the floors go by, wondering what he was going to say? That he was sorry? That he’d been wrong? That the thought of letting Sterling Hart breathe another day made him want to claw his way out of his own skin, but the thought of losing her was worse?

All of it was true. None of it felt like enough.

Fifty. Fifty-one.

He’d spent three hours at The Beast after she left. Not fighting. Just standing at ringside, watching other men trade blows because he couldn’t make himself get in there to burn it off. Couldn’t find the will to get in that ring and picture each and every one of his opponents as Sterling Fucking Hart.

He’d tried, dammit. But he couldn’t find the right headspace. Instead, he just found her, over and over, telling him that he was on the verge of becoming what he despised. A monster. Just like Sterling Hart.

She was right. He hated that she was right.

Fifty-four.

Finally.

The doors slid open, and Gabriel stepped out into the foyer. The penthouse was quiet, lights dimmed, the massive windows showcasing Atlantic City’s glittering sprawl. He could see her silhouette on the balcony, wrapped in what looked like one of Leo’s hoodies, staring out at nothing.

His chest ached just looking at her.

He crossed the living room slowly, giving her time to hear his footsteps, to decide if she wanted to flee before he reached her. She didn’t move at all. Just stood there, her back to him, arms wrapped around herself, shoulders tight with tension.

Finally, she said, “Leo told you that I’m alone here tonight, didn’t he?”

“Don’t blame him. I’m older and can take him in a fight.”

She didn’t turn, but the way her shoulders moved suggested he’d won a smile.

That was something.

“He also said you probably don’t want to see me, but I’m an asshole and came anyway.”

This time, her shoulders didn’t move.

“Can I come out there with you?”