Page 84 of The Beast

Chapter Twenty-Five

The first few days after Dekker are almost normal.

We fall into an easy rhythm—mornings in Gabe’s apartment, coffee and conversation before I hurry to the Monarch to deal with the gallery or the casino. I’ve told him to come with me, to hole up in the back room and paint. But he just shakes his head and says he’s not ready.

I don’t push.

It would be easier to move him into my suite, but that could put him on a collision course with my father, and neither of us wants that. Not until we have enough evidence to bury Sterling Hart for good.

And so our days stay separate.

Chris has a tight hand on the gallery, so I can mostly cross that off my plate. But between putting out fires at the casino and dodging my father’s calls, I’m ridiculously busy. At least Gabriel pulled the Gaming Commission complaints. That’s one less battle for me. Plus, it’s proof he’s done trying to destroy me.

Not that I still need proof.

He’s busy, too. Tracking Webb with Leo, building the case. Anything and everything they can find to nail my father to the proverbial prison wall.

Evenings, though…

Well, evenings are ours.

We cook together. Talk. And inevitably end up with our bodies tangled together on his couch, or in that tiny closet of a bedroom, and for a few hours at least, it almost feels like us again.

Almost.

Because something’s shifted. Since Dekker. Since Gabriel watched me watch him beat the truth out of a man. Since he came face to face with what was done to him—and what he’s capable of doing in return.

The beast that had finally started to trust me is back in its cage.

Gabe touches me like I’m breakable now. Like I might shatter. Like one wrong move will undo everything we’ve rebuilt.

Except, no. That’s not quite it. He touches me like a giant holding a baby bird, terrified that he’ll somehow accidentally crush the life out of the little thing. And knowing that he’s more than capable of doing that.

I tell myself he needs gentle. After everything, we both do.

Except I don’t need gentle. Hell, I don’t want gentle.

What I want is him. The real Gabe. The man who pinned me against that wall and growled my name like it was sacred. The beast, not the penitent.

But every time the heat rises between us, I feel him pull back. Slow down. Check himself. Like he’s afraid that if he lets go, he’ll prove he’s the monster he saw reflected in Dekker’s terrified eyes.

He’s punishing himself.

It takes me a while to realize it, but now that I do, there’s no denying it. The careful touches, the restrained passion—it’s not tenderness. It’s penance.

But I don’t want his guilt. I want his fire.

I want the man who told me to use him instead of his demons. The man who let me see all of him—the darkness and the light—and trusted me to love him anyway.

That man is still in there. I know he is. But Dekker dragged him back underground, and I don’t know how to reach him.

So I wait. I give him space. I let him set the pace, even when my body screams for more.

Because pushing him now would only make it worse. Would only confirm his fear that he’s too broken, too dangerous, too much.

And I refuse to be the reason he retreats further into himself.

Day by day, I remind myself. We promised each other that.