The Knight (Endgame #2)(41)

Damon’s expression reveals he still doubts the truth of it, but he doesn’t stand in our way. I don’t know what change of heart made him auction me, as emotionless as if I were a Persian rug, and then suddenly decide to help me. But I don’t need his help. Not about this.

Without another word Gabriel leads me past Damon, down the hallway and out the front door. A black limo waits in the damp air, raindrops glittering on the glossy tinted windows. Then we’re pulling away from the Den, heading toward Gabriel’s home, side by side in the deep shadowy interior.

A shiver works through me, and Gabriel changes the settings to warm me. I feel hot air blowing on me, but it can’t touch the coldness inside me. Only Gabriel’s hands do that, his body as he curves around me, his lips as he murmurs against my temple.

“Thank you,” he says.

“It’s coming apart,” I whisper.

“What is?”

The carefully constructed tangle of lies my father has built. And I’m afraid to see what thread appears next. Afraid to find out the rest of my mother’s story. “Did he really sell me?”

“I’m sorry, Avery.”

Pain can’t touch me now. Grief. Fear. “Keep me,” I say softly. “The rest of the thirty days. Don’t send me away again.”

His arms tighten around me. “I won’t.”

“The pictures.”

“I’ll find out who took them. Who vandalized the house.” Gabriel’s voice is grim. “He’ll wish he hadn’t.”

My eyes close against the possibilities. “I don’t understand. Why now?”

“I had security on the house. When you came to get your photos taken, you mentioned someone had been at your house at night.”

Old terror tightens my chest. “I convinced myself I had imagined that.”

“That would have been the best-case scenario, but I put security on the house anyway. Even after you were with me.”

“Because Daddy was still there.” And I realize that part of the weariness I saw in his eyes was from my father’s injuries. “And you didn’t pay for his care just because of me.”

“Some people think the point of chess is to kill the king. You know the truth.”

“Checkmate. It comes from the Persian verb for to remain. It means he’s helpless. Trapped.” My lashes lower. “Is that what you wanted to do to my father?”

“It’s the ultimate victory. Not that he should die, be made a martyr, mourned by a daughter he doesn’t deserve. I want him trapped in every sense of the word, unable to make another move, but alive and fully aware of his loss.”

“That’s disturbing.”

“That’s chess.”

Realization dawns. “And you stopped security after the auction, after I lost the house and you were no longer responsible for it.”

“Yes.”

“And that’s when someone vandalized it.” Someone who had pictures of me naked. Possibly the same person who had tried to break into my house while I was home. “But why didn’t they come after me directly?”

“They probably figured you’d find out what happened at the house.”

“But the motel would have been so much easier to break into.” I draw in a sharp breath. “You had security there too, didn’t you?”

“Not as much as I wanted, but some. And I made it known that you were under my protection. No one would have gotten into your room, that was for damn sure.”

It clicks, then. “Will. You put him there.”

“We had an understanding.”

Questions flood my mind. Did Will tell him everything that had happened, including Justin spending part of the night? Did he call Gabriel the night we got high? Is that why he came to check on me? Maybe another girl would have found that kind of watchfulness unnerving, but right now I find comfort in it. In a world where men would control me, Gabriel protects me.

It’s not the same thing as freedom.

My mother settled for safety, too. Maybe that can be enough.





Chapter Twenty-Six





I wake up with moonlight across my face. I’m wearing a T-shirt and panties, the sheet tangled around my legs. I thought he would send me to my room, like before, but instead he carried me to his bed. Exhausted, worn down, I fell asleep.

Gabriel lies next to me, his powerful body in rare repose. He doesn’t look young in sleep, only softer. Without the strict control he maintains while awake.

Lashes against his cheeks, incongruous fragility on a body compact with muscle. A shadow darkens his jaw. My legs move restlessly as I remember the burn of his bristle between them.

A sprinkling of wiry hair covers his chest and narrows, angling down. The sheet crosses his abs, and I use two careful fingers to move it aside. Cotton briefs mold to his body, revealing narrow hips and the shape of his cock against his thigh, large even in sleep. I still remember the taste of him, the salt and musk. Beneath the sheet his legs almost reach the base of the bed, making even the oversize frame look miniature.

“Enjoying yourself,” comes his husky voice.

My gaze snaps to his. Embarrassment wipes all the words from my brain.

He laughs, his lids low with sleep. “Don’t stop, little virgin. I think I can come from you looking at me.”