Page 22 of The Beast

Chapter Eight

After the driver drops me back at the Monarch, I stand outside the entrance for a long moment, staring up at the building as if I’ve never seen it before. Somewhere up there, David is waiting. Wondering where I went and why I ran out on him like the building was on fire.

What the hell am I supposed to tell him?

Hey, sorry I bolted after we had sex for the first time. Turns out my dead boyfriend is alive, and he thinks I tried to murder him. Also, he finger-fucked me in his underground lair and then kicked me out before I could come. How was the rest of your night?

A hysterical laugh bubbles up in my throat. I swallow it down as the valet shoots me a questioning look. My cue to go inside.

It’s a quarter past three, and the lobby is quiet—just a few die-hard gamblers stumbling toward the elevators and a bored-looking clerk at the front desk. No one pays attention to me as I make my way to the VIP elevator, swipe my keycard, and ride up to the penthouse level.

The suite is dark when I slip inside. David’s bedroom door is closed, a thin line of light visible underneath. He’s awake, of course. I left him naked and confused after the most intimate thing we’ve ever done together. Not exactly a recipe for a good night’s slumber. He’s probably been lying there since I bolted, replaying everything, trying to figure out what he did wrong.

The answer is nothing. He did nothing wrong. I’m the one who’s wrong. I’m the one who’s broken.

I ease to the other side of the suite, then slip into my own bedroom. As soon as the door snicks shut, I lean against it in the dark, pressing my palms flat against the cool wood and wondering for the twenty-seven millionth time what the hell happened tonight—and hating myself because whatever happened, it ended far too early.

I didn’t get answers. Hell, I didn’t even get an orgasm. But my body is still humming, and even now I can feel his hands on me. His mouth. The way he played me like an instrument, building me up to the edge of release and then⁠—

Nothing.

I squeeze my eyes shut, but that just makes the memories more vivid. His face above mine, cold and triumphant. The contempt in his voice. The way he looked at me like I was nothing. Like I was less than nothing.

Like I was the enemy.

A sob catches in my throat. I press my fist against my mouth to muffle it.

Gabriel is alive.

The thought keeps circling back, no matter how many times I try to push it away. Gabriel is alive. After five years of grief, five years of mourning, five years of wishing on every birthday candle and shooting star that I could have him back—he’s alive.

And he hates me.

I slide down the door until I’m sitting on the floor, my knees pulled up to my chest. The tears come then, hot and silent, streaming down my face in the darkness.

How can he believe it? How can he possibly think I would ever hurt him?

But I know the answer. I heard it in his voice, saw it in his eyes.

Your fucking goons were right there, making it very clear that each and every blow was a present from you and Daddy Dearest.

That’s what they told him. That’s the last thing he heard before he lost consciousness, bleeding out in a shallow grave.

Me. My family. Used as a weapon to destroy him.

And I was the only one who knew about his place in Aspen.

From his perspective, it all makes a horrible kind of sense. The woman he loved, the only one who knew his secret location, the daughter of a man who never approved of their relationship. Of course she was involved. Of course she betrayed him. Why wouldn’t she?

Except I didn’t. And it hurts my heart to know that he could believe that even for a second.

He needs to know the truth. Somehow, someway, I need him to know the truth.

But how?

I grab my phone, my hands shaking so badly I can barely type.

You awake?