Page 77 of The Beast

Having thus been blown off by my friends, I make my way down to the corridor that leads to Gabe’s place. And as I do, I realize I’m smiling. It’s nice to have Anissa’s perspective. It makes clear that he’s already come a long, long way.

But when I step through the door and see him pounding the shit out of a punching bag, my gut twists, and I know there’s still a long, long way to go.

For a moment, I just stand there. He hasn’t seen me yet. He’s too far gone, lost in whatever demon he’s battling, fists slamming into the bag with a fury that makes the chain rattle and groan.

I should announce myself. Should clear my throat or say his name.

Instead, I watch.

There’s something hypnotic about it. The coiled power in his shoulders. The way his muscles flex and release with each strike. The raw, primal energy rolling off him in waves.

This is the Beast. The thing he’s been trying so hard to keep leashed around me. The darkness he’s terrified will swallow us both.

And I realize, watching him, that Anissa had it pretty much right. This is how he survives it. This is how he’s survived it for five years. Not by healing. Not by processing. But by beating it out of himself, blow by blow, until his knuckles split and his muscles scream and there’s nothing left but exhaustion.

“Gabe.”

His head snaps toward me, and for a split second, I see it—the wildness in his eyes, the predator surfacing before he shoves it back down.

“Bella.” He’s breathing hard. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

“Clearly.” I set my bag on the counter, but don’t move toward him. Not yet. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing.” He grabs a towel, wipes his face. His knuckles are red. Battered. “Just...burning it off.”

“Burning what off?”

He doesn’t answer. Just stands there, chest heaving, the towel clenched in his fists like he’s fighting the urge to go back to the bag.

“Gabe. Talk to me.”

“You don’t want to hear it.”

“Yeah, I really do.”

His jaw tightens. When he finally speaks, his voice is low. Rough. Like the words are being dragged out of somewhere deep and dark.

“It never stops.” He stares at the bag, not at me. “The rage. The fear. The fucking darkness that lives inside me. I wake up and it’s there. I go to sleep and it’s there. Every time I close my eyes, I’m back in that cabin, and I can smell the smoke and feel the ropes and hear them laughing.”

His hand slams into the bag once, hard. “It never fucking stops.”

My heart cracks open. “Gabe.”

“This is how I survive it.” Another punch, then another. “This is how I keep from destroying everything around me. I beat it out until there’s nothing left. Until I’m too tired to feel anything.”

“And does it work?”

He laughs—a hollow, broken sound. “For a few hours. Maybe. Then it all comes back.”

I cross to him slowly. He tenses when I get close, like he’s afraid of what he might do.

“Don’t.” His voice is strained. “I’m not...I’m not safe right now, Bella. I need to get this under control.”

“Or what?”

“Or I might lose it completely.” He finally looks straight at me, and what I see in his eyes steals my breath. Not anger. Desperation. The look of a man drowning in his own darkness and terrified he’s going to drag me under with him. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t.”