12. Gabriel

12

GAbrIEL

A few more ordinary, easy days pass on the estate, and as they do, I can feel my resolve of what I planned to do with it wavering. My nightly updates from Gio haven't shown any sign that Igor is moving forward with plans to hunt us down, and while in my gut, I know that's only the calm before the storm, it's hard not to let myself become complacent again.

It's also hard to think about seriously searching for buyers for the estate when I feel more peaceful here than I have in a long time.

My home in New York was mine and Delilah's, bought shortly after our wedding before Cecelia was born. It's full of memories—almost all good. We argued, of course, as normal married couples do, and those early days with our first child were sleepless and often tense, but the years spent together in that house were so overwhelmingly happy that those few bad moments have long since faded into the background. It's been hard to escape my grief, there, even after so long. Hard to let myself heal, even when I know it's normal, and natural, to need to live my life beyond the shadow of that loss. And having Bella there, with how I feel about her and the things we've done, only compounded the guilt.

But here, at the estate—Delilah and I only traveled here a few times together. The vast majority of my memories here are of my childhood, of my parents, of the parts of my life outside of the ones where I was a husband and a father. Despite the looming threat of Igor, whom I know will come to call sooner or later, I can't help but feel as if I can breathe here. It's a feeling that I haven't had in years—that I didn't even realize I was missing until we arrived.

I still have work to do, remote meetings to handle, emails to keep track of, and business to conduct even an ocean away, but it still feels as if I have more time here. I'm technically busier—I've been involving myself more and more in the runnings of the estate day by day so that I can understand what it is that's been done here over the past years—but time seems to move at a different pace here. Even with those responsibilities, the afternoons where I've broken away to take the children to the lake or out for riding lessons, the slow dinners in the bright and sunny kitchen, the Italian countryside vista spreading out all around us—it makes me feel a peace that I'd forgotten was possible.

It makes me wonder if I really want to sell this off to someone who will see it as no more than a commodity. Not a place full of the rich history of my family, but a means to make money and nothing more.

But surely, what I'm feeling here is temporary. My life is in New York. My children's school, their friends, their lives are back in New York. As is Bella's.

If being at the estate makes me feel like I can breathe again, the thought of her makes me feel like that air is being sucked out of my lungs. I want her with a ferocity that I'd forgotten I was capable of feeling, and what happened in the library a few days ago only compounded that. I feel a throb of embarrassment every time I remember it—coming in my jeans as I ground up against her like a fucking teenager—but the sight of her pinned against the shelf, gasping and moaning as she came just from that, too, sent me over the edge.

Everything about her makes me feel like I'm on the verge of going over the edge.

She's fit in here so naturally. Just like she did when she moved in, back in New York. She and Agnes are making progress on the house. My children love her. Even though I know she's still terrified of Igor, she's thriving, too, and I can see it. She's put on a little bit of weight, the too-skinny edges of her from when she was sick beginning to soften and fill out. Her olive skin is more tanned, freckles popping out along the bridge of her nose. Sunlit highlights in her chestnut hair.

Just thinking about her makes me half-hard as I drive out to the estate office, my body thrumming with a strained desire to go back to the house, pull her into the nearest room, and devour every inch of her.

And I can't. She reminded me of that, while we were both still panting and breathless in the library. We agreed .

But I don't know if the reasons that I agreed to it are still the same any longer.

I told her that I couldn't fall in love again. That I had too much baggage, too much grief from the past. That I was too afraid of loss to open my heart to another woman. But here—here, things feel different. Here, I feel lighter. Like I might be able to escape the shackles of the past after all. Like I might be able to hope for a fresh start—the kind of fresh start that Bella has hoped for.

And my reaction to seeing her with that damned man in the gelato shop tells me that I'm going to have a hell of a time handling the idea of her being with anyone else in the future. That seeing her with another man, even if it's for the best, is going to feel like I'm being ripped apart from the inside out. Consumed with jealousy I have no right to.

No matter how many circles I go around and around in when it comes to Bella, I can never find a solution.

She occupies my thoughts for most of the day. I take Cecelia and Danny out for another riding lesson in the afternoon, driving them out to a further paddock that's larger and lets Cecelia have more free rein—she's a natural rider, and I want to encourage it—and as the sun is starting to lower in the sky, I see Bella jogging over.

My heart instantly trips in my chest. She had to have come out here on purpose this time—this is out of the way of her usual running path. I see Aldo behind her, one of the other Land Rovers parked near the outbuilding, and I force myself not to let my gaze rake over Bella in an entirely inappropriate way.

But god, she looks fucking gorgeous. She's wearing a pair of tight jeans and a loose black t-shirt that still somehow manages to cling in all the right places, a pair of boots on her feet. I wonder if she's come out to take me up on riding lessons of her own, and I feel an entirely inconvenient throb at the thought of what I'd rather be teaching her to ride.

One of the many things we didn't get to do. One night wasn't enough to do all the things I've imagined with her, and now the thought of Bella atop me, riding my cock while I look up at the gorgeous expanse of her body, is just that. A fantasy.

Bella walks up to the railing, leaning against it. I unclip the lead line from Danny's pony, letting him take a few turns around the paddock on his own. He's already shown that he's confident enough to do it, but I can't help being overcautious. My first broken bone was out here on the estate when I was just a little older than him, getting thrown from a spooked horse.

"Bella asked me to bring her down here," Aldo says cheerfully, hobbling towards the paddock. His gait has gotten slower since we left New York, and it's yet another reason I'm glad we ended up coming to the estate. There's not much that he's needed for here—the estate already has a fully functioning staff and all the workers we need—and it's been a much-deserved vacation for him.

"I thought you could give me a driving lesson on the way back," Bella says. Her hair is up in a ponytail, swishing against the back of her neck, and I have to immediately drive the image of wrapping it around my hand out of my head.

For a man whose sex life was all but dead in the few years prior to meeting Bella, she's re-energized that need in a way that feels barely controllable, and is highly inconvenient.

"I can drive the old one back," Aldo says, leaning against the railing. "So you can teach her on the automatic. I'll take the kids back up when they're done."

Every bit of common sense I have tells me that being alone with Bella is a bad idea, if we have any intention of sticking to what we reaffirmed in the library. Being alone with her in a car, on the expansive estate, where it would be easy to find someplace where no one could catch us, is an even worse idea. But she's smiling, her expression hopeful, and that alone makes it impossible for me to say no to her.

"Alright," I relent. "We'll be done here in a few minutes."

A half-hour later, the ponies are untacked and returned to the barn, and Aldo and the kids are headed back up to the mansion in the old Land Rover, leaving Bella and me alone.

"Ready?" I ask, tossing her the keys, and she nods. I can see a flicker of nervousness in her face, but she opens the driver's side door to the newer Land Rover, and climbs in.

"It'll feel a little different from the one I was teaching you back home," I tell her as she starts the engine. "This is a bigger car, and it's meant for rougher terrain, so it will handle a little differently. But you'll get it."

"I barely got the other one to drive," she says, a nervous laugh making the words a little shaky. "But I want to try."

"That's all that matters." I slide into the passenger's side, buckling my seatbelt. "There's no rush."

I know for Bella, it's the independence that she wants, though. The feeling of not needing to rely on anyone else. And there is something of a rush, for that. With every day that the threat of Igor's retribution hangs over her, she needs things to make her feel as if she has some control over some part of her life.

I have a feeling that's how we ended up the way we did in the library. With the threats that Igor has hung over her, there's not much that she would want control of more than her own body. Her own choice of who to give it to.

I want to be the one she gives it to. My entire body tightens at the thought, my cock instantly pressing against the fly of my jeans as I try to focus on Bella's driving, and not the insistent need that keeps thrumming through me every time she's close. In the warm interior of the car, I can smell her shampoo and soap, the sweet scent of her skin, and I want to bury my face in her hair, in the corner of her neck, in her breasts, breathing her in. I want my bed to smell like her, sweet and fragrant, and in an instant, my erection has gone from frustrating to nearly painful.

The car lurches, jolting me out of the fantasy, and I hear Bella swear under her breath. Somehow that fucking turns me on, too, because I can't remember hearing her swear outside of the bedroom, or when we're alone. I think she's careful about it, so that she doesn't accidentally curse in front of the kids.

She lets out a long breath, pressing her hands against the steering wheel. I can see that small line between her brows that tells me she's frustrated.

"It takes time to learn," I tell her gently. "We'll limp this car the whole way back if that's what it takes, until you get used to it. It's harder here than it would have been in a parking lot, or on a back road, too."

Bella nods, her lips thinning into a focused line. This time, she makes it a little further before she accidentally presses down on the gas too hard, and then reacts by slamming her foot against the brake.

I'm pretty sure I might have the beginnings of whiplash by the time we get back to the house. I could use a good massage for the jolting in my shoulders and back, but with each try, she gets a little further before something happens. She makes it a good fifty or so yards without incident, before abruptly stopping the car near the house and killing the engine.

She looks at me, her cheeks flushed. "Better, right?"

I nod. "Better. You're already getting the hang of it."

She laughs, and the sound warms me from the inside out. It makes me want to reach out and pull her to me, to kiss her, but not just out of desire.

I feel more than lust for her. I like her. I look forward to every moment I get to spend with her. Every conversation. I look forward to seeing her in the morning when she comes down for breakfast, and when she goes to bed at night, I wish she were in my bed instead. Not just because my entire body aches for her with a desire that I'd forgotten was possible, but because I want her close. Her warmth, her scent, the solidness of her body in bed next to mine. The comfort of it.

There's a name for all of those feelings, for what they mean, all wrapped up together, all lodged in my chest, a painful weight behind my ribs. A word that I can't say out loud, because it would change everything between Bella and me in a way that we've agreed to not let happen.

She slides out of the car, and I follow. On the deck behind the house, I see that Agnes has started to set out dinner, and I see a grin spread over Bella's face.

"It looks like we're having dinner outside tonight," she says delightedly, as she sees Agnes carrying a platter of what looks like burgers out to the long wooden table, handing me back the keys and hurrying up to the deck.

It's a perfect night for it, warm but not overly so, the sky blazing with color, a slight breeze cooling the air. Outside, it smells of flowers and sun-warmed grass and the fresh, clean air of the Italian countryside, and as we all take our seats at the table, I'm once again struck with that feeling of wanting to preserve this moment forever. To stay here, and never let it go.

What if I didn't have to?

It's a pretty fantasy, one that's difficult not to linger over as we eat. Dinner is burgers on soft homemade buns, with grilled peaches, burrata, pesto, arugula, and a balsamic reduction. Agnes made thin, crispy homemade onion rings as a side, along with a salad, and a truffle aioli for dipping. The wine is from the estate, a crisp, dry white, and I watch Bella as we eat—the animated way that she talks to Cecelia and Danny about their riding lessons, telling them self-deprecatingly about her driving on the way home, her compliments to Agnes on dinner. There's a crème br?lée with berries on top for dessert, and as the sun sinks and the stars start to come out, Bella looks up and catches my gaze.

Whatever she sees in my face, she goes suddenly quiet. She taps her teaspoon against her dessert, taking small bites, finishing the last of her wine, and then she glances over at Agnes.

"Do you need help cleaning up?" she asks. "I'm tired, and I have a little bit of a headache. All the dust from cleaning the library today, I think. I'm going to go upstairs once we're done."

Agnes shakes her head, giving Bella a concerned look that's almost motherly. The sight of it startles me, and makes me realize that everyone has come to care for Bella as much as I and the children do, that she's become a part of this family for all of us. "Go on upstairs," she says, shooing a hand at Bella. "I'll clean up. Gabriel can help me." She pinpoints me with a look, and I laugh.

"Of course."

Bella nods, putting her napkin on the table and getting up. As I watch her go, I don't think it's a headache that's making her go upstairs early. I think it's something else—something to do with the way her face fell when she saw the expression on mine.

I want to follow her up, to make her tell me what she's thinking, but I know that won't help. If anything, it will make things blow up, make the tension between us worse, cause other problems that neither of us wants. It takes all of my self-control to stay downstairs, helping Agnes clean up from dinner until it's finally all finished, and she retreats with the children to take them upstairs to bed.

Hanging up the dishtowel on the iron hook by the sink, I take a glass and an opened bottle of wine left from dinner, and walk back out to the deck. The night has cooled, the sky clear of clouds, and full of brilliant stars. As I pour wine into the glass, leaning on the edge of the deck as I look out over the quiet estate, the only thing I can think is that I want Bella here next to me.

I want her sharing this with me. All of it. Everything I have, all of my life. She's already so much a part of it that the loss of her would feel like surgery. The removal of something vital. It's part of why we've danced around this thing between us so constantly, because if it all fell apart, I—and everyone else here who cares about and needs her—would lose her.

I can't justify giving in to what I feel for her when it risks so much.

I take another long gulp of the wine, wondering if I should have brought something stronger out here instead, when my phone buzzes in my pocket. It's hardly a surprise, given the time difference and the fact that it's afternoon back in New York. It's also not a surprise to find that Gio is the one calling me.

"Hello?" I answer the phone, setting my glass down.

"Gabriel." The tone in Gio's voice makes me go instantly still, my blood chilling. Gio has been my only security for a long time, back when I didn't need more than just him, and I've known him for so long that I know very well what the tone of his voice means.

The calm is over, and the storm is about to hit.

"I'm sending you some pictures," he says calmly, his voice so tense and hard that my gut instantly knots, wondering what the pictures are of. "But before you check that email, I thought it was better you hear it from me."

"Hear what?" I sink down onto the bench by the railing, my blood rushing in my ears. Something bad has happened. What it is, I'm not sure, because everyone that I needed to keep safe is here with me. My mind is racing, trying to imagine what other way Igor could have struck.

"The mansion—your house—" Gio takes a deep breath. "Igor's men struck. It's been burned, Gabriel. Parts of the structure are left, of course, but—" He lets out the breath sharply. "Everything inside is destroyed."

It feels like a blow, like I've been struck. I can feel myself reeling for a moment, anger flooding me, overwhelming every other possible emotion. I can't speak—all I can hear is my own pulse and the rush of my breath as I try to take in what Gio has just told me.

"Gabriel?"

"You're sure it was Igor?" My voice sounds hollow. I can't imagine who else it would have been. No one else has cause. But I have to ask. I have to be sure. The possibility that I have other enemies willing to go to those lengths that I'm unaware of is unthinkable, but if that is the case?—

"I'm sure." Gio pauses. "There was a letter left in the mailbox. Taped to the top of the inside, so it wouldn't be easily taken by anyone not looking for evidence. I've sent a photo of it to you as well." He hesitates again, and I can hear him clearing his throat. "Do you want me to fly out, Gabriel? I can be on a flight in a couple of hours. I'm not sure if there's any need for me to be here any longer?—"

"No." I cut him off. "I need you doing reconnaissance there. Find out whatever you can about his movements. If he's called in any favors, any alliances. I need more information. I need it now ."

"Noted." There's silence on the other end for a moment, and then Gio speaks again, an edge to his voice that I recognize as nervousness. "We've known each other for a long time, Gabriel, and?—"

"Just say it." On the heels of the immense anger is a wave of tiredness, and the knowledge that when I hang up the phone, I'm going to have to look at the wreckage of my life back in New York.

"He's after Bella." Gio's voice is flat, matter-of-fact. He has no stake in what happens to Bella, and I know that's what enables him to say it like that, to say what he thinks I need to hear. "Not you. Not your family?—"

"I'm not handing her over to him." The words come out knife-sharp, with a finality that brooks no argument.

"I'm not saying that. I'm saying you've gotta find some way to protect her, Gabriel, if you want to keep her safe. Because he's coming for blood, and it's going to be all of yours, unless there's some solution we haven't thought of yet."

That hits me like a punch to the gut. "Just let me know what you find out."

"Will do."

The phone clicks off, and I drop it into my lap. The email notifications are lighting up the screen, and I stare at them for several long moments, unwilling to open them. To see what destruction Igor has wreaked.

When I finally do, and the photos of the burned-out mansion fill my screen, it feels like a fist has reached in and yanked my heart out of my chest. The house is a wreckage; all that remains of it is a hollowed-out, blackened brick structure with the roof, interior, and surrounding landscaping nearby reduced to ash.

Along with everything inside of it. Wedding photos. Baby pictures. Memories of Cecelia, Danny, and Delilah, some of which I have backed up on my computer, but others that are now gone forever. Vacation pictures taken on disposable cameras. The last few remnants of her clothing that I kept—the leather jacket she loved and her wedding dress, preserved in a box in case Cecelia wanted to make use of it one day. Our wedding rings, also saved for our children. Some of the clothes and toys that we kept from when Cecelia and Danny were babies. Art they brought home from school.

Igor has decided that it's not enough to try to take Bella back from me. He's decided that his revenge will mean taking everything .

The rage that fills me, looking through the photos, is all-consuming. It burns through me, wiping away any sense of restraint, any thought I had of bargaining with Igor Lasilov. His destruction of my home, my past, sends a clear message that I don't need to look at the letter Gio found to understand.

If you want to run, I'll make sure you have nothing to come back to.

I grit my teeth, swiping through to the last photo. The letter. It's simple—only one line. But that one makes my vision swim red, a killing rage sweeping through me all over again.

Return my fiancée, or I will see the rest of your life reduced to ashes, one thing at a time.

I read it again. And a third time, as the realization of what needs to be done settles over me, Gio's words still ringing in my ears.

Find some way to protect her.

Return my fiancée.

I grit my teeth, my hand tightening around my phone as if I could crumple it like a wad of paper.

I know what I have to do to keep Bella safe.

But she's not going to like it.