Page 21 of The Castle (Endgame 3)
“He warned me about you,” I say, dropping onto a smooth leather ottoman a few feet away, my fancy emerald dress wrinkled and ruined above my knees.
“Did he?” Gabriel says, sounding unconcerned.
“He told me I should run away from you.” Sex for money. I guess it’s more honest work than your daddy did, but just as dirty.
“You didn’t listen.”
“No. I spent the first eighteen years of my life listening to men tell me what to do. And then I realized that they were going to judge me no matter what I did. They were going to sell me and buy me and do whatever they wanted, so I may as well get a cut.”
Gabriel’s golden eyes glint with pride. “That’s right.”
“And how’s that working out for you?” Anders asks, his voice dry, the unspoken answer obvious as he unspools a length of suture tape.
“Things weren’t exactly safe before he came into my life.” I can’t quite shake the memory of the mystery man outside my window when I was alone in the house with my father bedridden. Was he sent by Jonathan Scott? Or someone else who hated my father? I didn’t get a good enough look at his face.
For all I know it could have been Anders.
The only reason I know it wasn’t Jonathan Scott himself is because I would be dead.
Your father stole from Gabriel Miller, and nobody gets away with that. That’s why he got knocked down. But Gabriel wasn’t the only person he stole from.
“I won’t hurt him,” Anders says without looking up.
“I know,” I say. Gabriel wouldn’t let the man near him if he wasn’t competent. He wouldn’t be at the Den at all. “I’m sorry I freaked out.”
He glances at me briefly before dabbing a solution over the area, wiping away bright blood onto a cotton swab. “I’ve done this a hundred times before, on Gabriel alone.”
“You know, surprisingly that doesn’t make me feel better.”
Gabriel slants me a taut smile. “No bullet can bring me down, little virgin. So don’t get any ideas.”
I have the sudden realization that he’s teasing me to take my mind off the shooting. That’s how much he cares about me, how much he cares for me. That he would protect me, covering my body with his. That he would pull me out of a dangerous situation and take me to safety. That he would joke with me so that I wouldn’t be shaking with anxiety while his injury is tended.
“Gabriel,” I whisper.
His expression doesn’t change, but I feel the moment when Anders pushes the needle through his wounded flesh. The pain pulses through my body like it’s my own. “Take me home. After this, take me home. I won’t fight you anymore.”
I don’t care how much it hurts me to stay in the gilded prison. In this moment I don’t even care how crazy I might become, the voices that I shouldn’t hear.Chapter TenGabriel refuses pain medicine during the stitches, the only sign of pain his eyes darkening to bronze.
Anders holds out a small pile of pills. “Antibiotics.”
A frown. “I don’t need medicine.”
Anders rolls his eyes. “You can’t even let your guard down for a motherfucking second.”
Gabriel glances at me, his golden eyes bright with promise. “Not if I can help it.”
Worry makes my stomach turn. He’ll run himself to the ground like this, refusing medical attention, putting himself into danger to protect me.
I put my hand on his arm. “If you get an infection, you won’t be any use to anyone.”
His eyes narrow like he wants to refuse. Instead he takes the medicine and swallows them dry.
“Now go lie down,” Anders says, sounding surly. “And don’t fuckin’ argue.”
Gabriel stands, his large body swaying before I move to support him. The air rushes from my lungs as I realize how much of his body is pure muscle. My own legs shake as I help him over to a long brown sofa, the leather crinkled and worn.
He collapses on the soft leather. “You fucker,” he says, voice slurred.
“Stubborn,” Anders says, a look of dark satisfaction on his face.
Golden eyes disappear beneath heavy lids.
“You slipped in pain medicine,” I say, torn between relief and guilt. Guilt, because he wouldn’t have taken any pills if I hadn’t urged him to.
Anders shrugs. “He would kill himself to stay awake.”
Gabriel’s large body lies faceup, one knee up, the other foot on the floor. He still wears the dress pants from dinner, a black belt across his abs. Tan skin stretches over ridged muscles. A sprinkling of silvery brown hair covers his chest. The blood has been cleaned from his skin, leaving only a small line of stitches on his shoulder.
Anxiety strums through me. “He’ll be okay, though, won’t he?”
“If he rests,” Anders says with a low growl.
He gathers his supplies with rigid order and disappears without another word.
