Page 81 of The Beast

Gabriel’s hand finds the small of my back—a grounding touch, though I’m not sure if it’s meant to steady him or me.

“Ready?” he asks.

No. Not even close. “Sure,” I say.

Leo opens the door, and the three of us head in.

The room is like something out of a mob movie. Small, windowless, lit by a single bulb. There’s a chair in the center, and in it sits a man with a scar through one eyebrow and his wrists zip-tied to the chair arms. He’s also bloodied and bruised, with one eye swollen nearly shut.

Ruby stands in the corner, arms crossed, watching him with an expression of cold patience.

The man—Dekker, I presume—looks up, his head turning slowly as he takes us all in, then backtracking to stop at Gabe.

He makes a scoffing sound, and something shifts in his expression. Fear, I think. But he’s trying to disguise it as mirth.

“You look pretty good for a corpse.”

Gabe doesn’t respond. Just walks slowly toward the chair, each step deliberate. Predatory.

“You know who I am,” Gabriel says quietly. “Which means you know why you’re here.”

Dekker spits blood onto the concrete floor. “I don’t know shit.”

“You shot me three times and left me to burn.” Gabriel’s voice is almost conversational. “You made sure I’d die believing the woman I loved had betrayed me.” He leans down, bringing his face close to Dekker’s. “I remember every second. Do you?”

Something flickers in Dekker’s expression. Not guilt—I doubt men like him even feel guilt. But recognition. Maybe fear.

“You survived,” Dekker says. “Congrats. Most don’t.”

“Who hired you?”

Silence. Gabriel straightens, then looks at Leo, and I see some unspoken communication pass between them.

“Isabella,” Gabriel says, not turning around. “You should step out.

He’s right. Every civilized instinct I have is screaming at me to walk out that door, to preserve some shred of the person I used to be.

Instead, I step forward. Past Gabriel. Until I’m standing directly in front of the man who tried to murder the love of my life.

“My investigators found you three years ago,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel. “You faked your death to avoid them. Why?”

Dekker’s good eye slides to me. Takes in my designer clothes, my manicured nails. The soft girlie things he probably thinks define me.

“Lady, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I’m so sorry,” I say sweetly. “I forgot to introduce myself. I’m Isabella Hart.” I watch his face carefully. “Sterling Hart’s daughter.”

There it is.

A flicker. Surprise, maybe, or calculation.

“You know my father.”

“Never heard of him.”

“Liar.” The word comes out sharp, vicious. “You tortured Gabe in my name, you fucker. The Hart bitch. Isn’t that what you said?”

Dekker’s expression shutters closed. But that doesn’t matter. I know what I know.