Page 87 of The Beast

Chapter Twenty-Six

Gabriel won’t touch me.

It’s been two days since the nightmare. Two days since his hands closed around my throat. Two days since he looked at me with horror and called himself broken.

He sleeps on the couch now and won’t even discuss sharing the bed.

“Not until I figure this out,” he’d said, and the finality in his voice left no room for argument.

So I lie alone in sheets that still smell like him, staring at the ceiling, listening to him pace the apartment at three in the morning. Sometimes I hear the punching bag he set up. Sometimes, the familiar sound of his brush on canvas.

He’s busy. Always battling demons. Always moving.

And each move takes him further from me. I can feel it—the distance growing, the walls going back up. Every time our hands accidentally brush, he flinches. Every time I move toward him, he finds a reason to step back.

It’s his bullshit way of protecting me.

And it means I’m going to lose him all over again.

When I finally call Harper, it’s not because I have a plan, but because I’m at my wits’ end.

“You sounded terrible on the phone,” she says when she rushes into the gallery, then pulls me into a hug. “How bad is he, really?”

“Not good,” I say, then signal to Chris that I’m escaping to the break room. Normally, I’d go into one of the showrooms, but right now, I don’t want even a hint of Gabriel keeping me from thinking straight. And the showrooms are pretty much odes to the man and his work.

We sit at the small round table, each with coffee, mine going cold as I try to articulate the width and breadth of the wall that’s gone up between Gabe and me.

“I can’t even talk about it. He just won’t.”

Her brow furrows, then she leans back, her eyes going wide. “Oh. You mean…”

“Touch me. Yes.” I glance at the door, as if I’m afraid the words will escape and tarnish the ears of someone browsing the gallery.

“Ever since that horrible nightmare,” I continue, then gesture vaguely at my throat. The bruises have faded to greenish-yellow, easily hidden with concealer, but we both know they’re under there.

“He’s convinced he’s too broken to be close to anyone, let alone me.”

“And you think he’s wrong?”

“I think he’s scared.” I pull my knees up, wrapping my arms around them like a child. “I don’t know how to reach him. What magical words will bring him back to me. I’ve had him back for like thirty seconds, and I’m losing him all over again.”

“Oh, sweetie.” She squeezes my hand. “He’ll get past it.”

I shake my head. “Maybe. I don’t know. He won’t talk to anyone. And every time I try to get close, he pulls away. God forbid I suggest he talk to a professional. I’ve done that twice, and he just sort of slips away inside himself. “It’s like he’s built this wall between us, and I can see him through the glass, but I can’t get to him.”

“Have you tried just talking to him? Telling him how you feel?”

“Only a zillion times. He won’t hear it. He’s convinced that he’s dangerous—that being close to me puts me at risk.”

I laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “The irony is that it’s the distance that’s killing me. Not the fear of what he might do.”

“What about...” Harper hesitates, clearly choosing her words carefully. “What about showing him? Instead of telling?”

I shake my head, completely clueless. Show him what?”

“That he has more control than he thinks.” She leans forward, her expression intense. “Look, I’ve known Gabriel since we were kids. He’s always been about control—controlling his image, his emotions, his father’s expectations. When he lost that in Aspen—I mean, when those assholes took everything from him—it broke something fundamental inside him.”

“Well, yeah. I know that.”