The Knight (Endgame #2)(55)

“To be alone.” His nod has finality. “I only need to confirm it’s done with Miller.”

I press my lips together, unable to say goodbye.

He hesitates. “Are you…?”

He wants to know if I’m okay. Whether he hurt one woman to save another. “I’m good here.”

I set out to save my mother’s house, because I thought it was her legacy. Something she passed down to me in a final motherly act. It was a myth I believed because I needed it, the allure a burning desire for love, the threat a cold realization that love wouldn’t be enough.

In the end I’m left not with a house or a diary, not with any assurance of my mother’s love. Instead I have only what’s in front of me—the opposite of myth. I have truth.





Chapter Thirty-Five





As mansions go Gabriel’s home is understated. It doesn’t have a bowling alley, a skating rink, or an Olympic-sized swimming pool. No solid-gold molding. The elite of Tanglewood want more pomp and circumstance for their millions.

Instead the house has an unassuming front, two white columns the only adornment. Inside it’s spacious but dimly lit, giving the appearance of being cozy.

The library is dark, only embers in the fireplace. I cross the rug to where Gabriel reclines in one of the wide leather armchairs beside the chess set, his posture innocuously casual. You might not guess that he had bruised three ribs and punctured a lung in the house.

He refused a hospital, choosing instead to be seen by his personal doctor. A doctor who had warned me that our patient was particularly stubborn. Watch for shortness of breath, muscle weakness, fatigue. He probably won’t tell you when he gets tired, but he needs to rest.

He looks the opposite of tired, lounging with leashed power.

“Gabriel. Can I get you something?”

His eyes burn with accusation. “What did you have in mind?”

“Tea. A blanket.” I had known he would be angry, but I refuse to let him push me away. “It’s only fair that I help you heal.”

“If you think this is going to make me go easy on you, think again.”

“I know you’re mad about the fire,” I begin. “You told me not to go to the house.”

He leans forward, the slow movement his only concession to injury. “I’m not mad that there was a fire, Avery. At least I’m not mad at you. When we find Jonathan Scott, he’ll pay for that.”

“Damon hasn’t found him yet?”

The last I saw of Damon was at the fire. He’s been a man on a mission ever since. After decades of living in the same city, never speaking, Damon wants to kill his father.

“He’s gone underground. And when a man like Jonathan Scott goes underground in this city, he’s untraceable. A fucking ghost in the twisted machine that is Tanglewood.”

“For good?”

“I’m sure he’ll strike when we least expect it.”

My stomach twists with unease. “And the house?”

“It’s coming down.” He gives me a sideways look. “Unless you want me to rebuild it.”

I swallow hard. “You would do that for me?”

“Haven’t you figured that out, little virgin? I would do anything for you.”

My heart expands, beating wildly. “Why?”

“Don’t change the subject,” he says, his voice silky with menace. “All I can think about is spanking your hide until it’s pink, and then red, and then black-and-blue. And even then I wouldn’t stop punishing you.”

“Why?” The word comes out as a squeak.

“I told you to leave.”

“Leave you in a burning building?”

“Exactly.”

“I could never do that. I mean, I don’t even think I could do that for a stranger. And you’re—”

“What am I?” he asks, a challenge thick in his voice. “What do you think you know?”

I place my palm against his hard jaw, feel the tension coursing through him. And recognize it for what it is. Fear for me. Love. “I know that you’re a man on the edge.”

His hand grasps my wrist, squeezing in threat. “On the edge of what?”

“You tell me.”

“I would break every single rib over and over again, every goddamn bone in my body if I could stop this horrible feeling, this constant need to have you near me, under me. Wrapped around my cock.”

A small laugh escapes. “I think it will be a while before we do that.”

Golden eyes narrow. “Why’s that?”

My eyes flick down to his chest. A black T-shirt covers him, the thin fabric tracing the lines of his bandages. “You’re injured.”

“Not too injured for that.” He moves my hand down to his jeans. His hard length greets my touch, pulsing against my palm.

“No way. The doctor told me you would be trouble.”

A low growl. “I’ll show you trouble.”

“No, no,” I say quickly, knowing he’ll make good on his threat. And then he really would hurt himself. “Maybe in a couple weeks we could try something slow—”

“Now.”

“But what if you—”