17. Bella

17

BELLA

A rough hand winds through my hair, bobby pins hitting the carpet as they yank down my already tumbling up-do. “What a pretty bride,” a Russian-accented voice snarls, another fist wrapping in the skirt of my wedding dress, pushing it up to my knees. “Think this one kept herself a virgin, like they’re supposed to?”

I let out a cry of protest, trying to pull away, but the hand in my hair is too tight. Already, I can feel strands snapping, tugging at my scalp threateningly, letting me know that to try to yank away is only to invite more, worse pain.

“Don’t go too far,” another voice warns. “Still the boss’s right to take whatever he wants from her, first. Even if he’s not going to marry her.”

“Whaddya think, boys?” the first voice snarls, tipping my head back with that rough fist enough that I can see the man’s face. It’s hard, chiseled into angry, violent planes of bone and scruffy beard, those dark eyes promising all sorts of pain. Delighting in imagining it. “Wanna bet on whether or not he’ll let us fuck her once he’s had his fill?”

“I’ll take that bet,” another voice rumbles, from behind me. “The more you bet, the higher your place in line if he does.” A chuckle, anticipatory and eager, sends shudders down my spine. “The more you bet, the sooner you get in that tight almost-virgin pussy.”

No one notices the tears running down my face, as they roar with laughter, leaning in to inspect me in the back of the dark SUV I was dragged into from the church. Or maybe they do, and that’s where some of their enjoyment is coming from. Making me cry. Feeling my fear.

A rough hand slides up my thigh, above my knee, squeezing hard enough to bruise, stopping just short of where it’s not allowed to touch. The fingers dig in, and when I cry out in pain, I feel the man next to me grind himself against my hip, something iron-hard pressing into the outside of my thigh.

“The more you scream, devochka ,” he growls, his hot breath against my ear, “the harder I get. So keep screaming for me, da ?”

I jolt awake, biting my lip hard just in time to keep from screaming aloud. Next to me, Gabriel is sleeping, curled on his side facing away, and I don’t want to wake him. I press one hand over my mouth, stifling the sound of my breathing as I press the other to my chest, trying to pull myself out of the dream and back to reality. Back to the present, where those men can’t get to me, and all of it is in the past.

But it’s not in the past. Not really, when so much of it still infects my present. When it all keeps me from living my life the way I might want to, if that hadn’t happened.

It feels even more painful, even more unfair, with the chance for independence that Gabriel has given me on the horizon. With that independence could come the opportunity for a normal relationship, to date the way Clara and every other woman who wasn’t born into the life I was gets to, to meet and fall in love on my own terms. But the possibility of that was taken from me, when things were done to me that make me feel now as if I’m going to dissolve into a panic attack just at the idea of a man touching me.

I wrap my arms around my waist as my breathing slows, looking over at Gabriel’s still, sleeping form. Regret blossoms in my stomach, spreading through me like a cold ache. Gabriel is a good man—the best man I’ve ever met. Especially in this world, he’s a man unlike any other I would probably meet at all—honest, well-meaning, kind. I would have been the luckiest woman alive to have been engaged to someone like him, instead of Pyotr, if I had been fortunate enough for that to happen.

But instead, I was engaged to Pyotr. And now I’m broken, and Gabriel has endured everything that’s happened to him, too, things that make him no longer want to be with anyone.

A wave of sadness grips me, twisting something in my chest. I feel something for him, I realize, something more than just gratitude. He’s the first man who has ever been patient with me, the first one who has ever tried to understand me—and it’s more than just that. I let my thoughts drift over the moments we’ve shared together since we met, like a montage—that first moment when I crashed into him in the hallway, seeing him in the foyer of my home as I came down the stairs, that first dinner out when he seemed to so easily pick up on what was needed to make me comfortable. That flood of adrenaline as he opened the Ferrari up on that back road, that moment of closeness when I spilled my wine in the living room. The way he instinctively went to hold me when I woke up screaming that first night that I had the nightmares again, and the way he pulled back when he realized that wasn’t what I needed.

I could fall for this man so easily, I realize, my heart stuttering in my chest at the thought, as I watch him sleeping for a long moment. Maybe I already am. And I realize, too, that it’s hard for me to imagine finding anyone else who would make me feel this way. Maybe it’s just because I’ve never had the experience. Maybe everyone who lives a normal life feels like this the first time that they fall for someone, and later on, they realize it wasn’t as big of a deal as they thought it was at the time.

But Gabriel is giving me a ticket out, eventually. He’s giving me an income, my own accounts, everything that I need to be free of my father and have my own life. An entire world is opening up for me—and all I can think is that while all of that makes me feel better than I have in a long time, what I want is to stay here.

That doesn’t mean I can’t still try to have a relationship, if I wanted to try, eventually. My job here doesn’t place any limitations on that. In fact, I think Gabriel would encourage it. So why does the idea of him approving of me seeing someone send a jab of pain through my chest? Why do I feel like I want him to stake some kind of claim on me, to be disappointed or even upset if I wanted to date?

I bite my lip, sinking back down under the covers and rolling onto my side so that I’m facing his back. My fingers itch with the sudden urge to reach out and touch him, and I think of his offer when he first told me to come and sleep in his bed, when he said that I could sleep close to him if it would make me feel safer.

The urge to curl into him washes over me, to find out what it would be like to shape my body around his, to feel his warmth sinking into my skin. For the first time, the immediate reaction to the thought of touching him isn’t panic. I almost—want it. I want to know what it feels like.

I sneak my hand halfway across the space between us, looking at the thin black cotton of his shirt covering him, and I almost touch him. I feel my heart slam into my ribs, my breath catching in my throat—and then the memory of the nightmare comes back. Those bruising fingers pressing into my thigh, leaving marks that didn’t fade entirely for weeks, the feeling of my hair being tugged from my scalp.

The more you scream, the harder I get.

Fear and nausea wash over me, and I recoil, rolling over so that I’m facing away from him, curling into myself. It was foolish of me to think I might want to try. Foolish to think that I could ever be anything other than broken.

And especially foolish to think that this man could be the one to change that.

I close my eyes and try to fall back to sleep.

—

The next thing I’m aware of is the sound of someone saying my name, a man’s voice. It’s raspy and a little sleepy, and I feel a wave of warmth wash over me in the moment before I open my eyes, and see Gabriel standing next to my side of the bed. I blink, realizing he’s in black gym shorts and a soft-looking white shirt, his hair tucked behind his ears as he looks down at me.

“Mm—what?” I mumble, half-sitting up. “What’s going on?”

There’s a half-smile on his face. “Took you long enough to wake up,” he says with a chuckle. “I can’t shake you awake, so just saying your name over and over took a while.”

Heat blooms in my cheeks at the thought of Gabriel standing there, murmuring my name to try to wake me—along with a wave of appreciation that he didn’t touch me to wake me up. He’s careful of me, thoughtful, and with every new interaction that reminds me of it, I appreciate it more and more.

“I want you to come down to the gym with me,” he continues, and I blink at him, not entirely sure I’m hearing him correctly. A quick look at the clock tells me that it’s just before six in the morning, which is an ungodly time to wake up, in my opinion.

“To—work out?” I ask confusedly, and Gabriel’s smile twitches.

“What else would you do in a gym?” he asks with a laugh, and I feel my blush deepen. I don’t think he meant it to be an innuendo at all—but he makes me think things that I haven’t in a long time.

“I just—I’ve never gotten up this early to work out.” I sit up, the blankets pooling around my hips, and I catch the quick flick of his gaze downwards before he refocuses on my face. “What do you want to do?”

“I want to teach you some self-defense moves,” Gabriel says. “I’ve seen you running, but I think this will help with your nightmares.”

I frown. “I don’t know about that?—”

“It’s worth a try,” he insists, letting out a breath. “Do you always want to be reliant on those sleeping pills?”

The question stings a little. “Of course not,” I say quickly, a little defensively, and he nods.

“I didn’t think so. And I think that if you feel like you can defend yourself, it will subconsciously help. It’s at least worth trying, don’t you think?”

I can’t argue with that. At least not without saying that at least part of my hesitation is being alone with him, doing something so physical. That I don’t know how that will affect the strange, confusing feelings that I’m already struggling with, and I’m a little afraid to find out.

“I know you don’t want me to touch you,” Gabriel continues, almost as if he can hear what I’m thinking. Maybe he can read it on my face, and I struggle to keep my expression neutral, not wanting to be so transparent. “I can’t teach you a lot without doing that, but we can go through some moves on the boxing bag without having to touch, and I can demonstrate while you try to match what I’m doing. How does that sound?”

It sounds way out of my depth, and beyond anything I’ve even considered trying before. But I find myself nodding, because I don’t really have a reason not to try, and what he’s saying does make sense.

“My workout clothes are in my room.” I run a hand through my hair, still trying to wake up the rest of the way. “I’ll go grab them and—meet you downstairs?”

Gabriel nods, and I toss the covers back, dragging myself out of bed. I can’t quite believe that I’m actually getting out of bed before six in the morning to workout. That sense of unreality hasn’t entirely faded by the time I pull on a pair of leggings and a long-sleeved workout top. I shove my feet into a pair of sneakers and throw my hair up into a ponytail, and go downstairs to find Gabriel already waiting for me, two bottles of water in hand.

“You have far too much energy for this time of day,” I grumble, following him as he leads me to the stairs that will take us down to the basement. “I’m going to need a nap today when the kids take one.”

Gabriel chuckles, saying nothing as he pushes the door open and leads me downstairs. When he flicks the light on, I stare for a moment, taking in the entirety of the room.

He wasn’t kidding when he said that he has a whole, fully equipped gym down here. If I were more of a gym rat, I’d be blown away—as it is, I’m more than a little impressed. His physique makes sense now—he doesn’t even have to leave the house to get in shape, and he’s clearly put this space to work.

That thought makes me glance at him, taking in the muscles of his arms and back from where I’m standing behind him, and I force myself not to look at his ass in the clinging black shorts. Gabriel is not a man I’m supposed to check out. Not in the slightest.

But it feels like progress that I want to check him out at all.

Gabriel gestures to the mats. “Go ahead and do whatever warmup you want,” he says, kicking his sneakers off and walking to one side. “I’m going to get warmed up, too, and then we’ll start on the bag.” He motions to the large boxing bag hanging from chains at one end of the room, and then he sinks down to the mat, starting what I assume is his usual stretching routine.

I can’t help sneaking looks at him in the long mirror that takes up one entire wall, as I move through my own stretches that I always do pre-run. His body is incredible—all lean, lithe muscles that make me think of Hugh Jackman in that very first X-Men movie, before they started dehydrating him and stopped letting him eat anything other than shredded chicken, I assume. Gabriel is ripped, but not overly so, not so muscled that it looks extreme. But with every movement of his body, I can see the muscles flexing, the taut olive skin rippling over them, and I suddenly feel as if it’s very warm. I can hear that the air conditioning is on, but sweat is already prickling on the back of my neck.

I feel like I did that night when I spilled the wine, and he was close enough to kiss, an ache settling between my thighs, spiraling through me as I force myself not to look at him again, lest I get caught. The last thing I want is for Gabriel to see me checking him out, especially when he’s made it clear that he’s not interested in romance.

But I know I’ve seen him looking at me, too. I’ve felt the tension between us on a few occasions, now. And I can’t help letting my thoughts wander, just a little, until he stands up and walks towards where I’m still sitting on the mats.

For a brief moment, I’m looking up at him, and it takes everything in me not to let my gaze settle between his thighs, to try to see if I can make out what’s there, beneath that thin fabric of his black shorts. I swallow hard, looking up at his face, and when I do, there’s something in his green gaze that I’ve only seen there once before—that night that I thought he was going to kiss me.

Something darkens in his eyes as he looks down at me, something hungry and almost possessive, before he takes a quick step back, giving me room to get up as he averts his gaze.

“We can start, if you’re warmed up enough,” he says quickly, but I hear the rasp in his voice, see the way he swallows as he looks past me towards the boxing bag at the far end of the room.

I stand up, rubbing my hands against my shorts, and follow him to the bag. For the next few minutes, he shows me how to make a fist—not to tuck my thumb under my fingers, for instance—and how to balance my weight so that I can move back and forth easily. We practice that stance for a bit, until I have a good center of balance and can bob back and forth without wobbling, and then Gabriel starts to show me how to strike the bag.

“Don’t really hit it yet,” he explains. “You’ll hurt your hands. I’ll give you a pair of gloves once you actually start striking it. But for now, just get the motion down.”

It’s slow and repetitive, but I can understand how in time, this might help me. Gabriel gets a pair of gloves for himself, showing me how the moves work in practice, promising me that next session, he’ll show me how to actually hit.

He never actually touches me, but as I run through the movements over and over, he moves closer, mimicking the motion as I do it, close enough that if I shifted, I would bump against him. The heat in the room feels as if it ticks up another notch, and I’m viscerally aware of how close he is, of the scent of his skin—spicy soap and deodorant mixed with the warm male scent of his sweat. I feel my blood pulse a little faster, my heart in my throat, and I swallow hard, trying to focus. But it’s harder the longer he’s close to me, and no longer for the reasons it once was. It’s not until I falter a little and Gabriel steps back, dropping his arms to his sides, that I realize I didn’t feel a flare of panic at having him so close. Not even once.

“You look like you’re getting tired,” Gabriel says abruptly. “We’re probably good to stop for now. That was a good start,” he adds encouragingly, turning away slightly. “I’m going to go through the rest of my workout, if you want to go get ready for the day. We’ll try this again tomorrow.”

I nod, hesitating as I glance at him. I can’t help but wonder what he would do if I reached out and touched him right now. I can see the way he’s angling himself away from me, as if there’s something he doesn’t want me to see, the way he doesn’t quite look me in the eye. I can feel the tension between us, thick and heavy in the air, pulsing the way my blood is throbbing through my veins, a heightened awareness of arousal I haven’t felt in a very long time, heating me from the inside out.

“Tomorrow,” I manage, and make a beeline for the door.

I don’t glance back to see if Gabriel is watching me. I hurry up the stairs, to my room, closing the door behind me and locking it as I strip out of my sweaty clothes and go to the shower. It’s not until I’m behind that second locked door, the sound and steam of the water filling the room, that I step into the glass cubicle of the shower and lean back against the tiles, my hand sliding between my thighs.

For once, I’m not thinking about anything that I’m afraid of. I’m not thinking of any of the terrible things that sex has come to be associated with, in my mind. All I can think about is the ache between my legs, and what I can do to ease it.

I gasp when I slip my fingers between my folds, the tiles of the shower cool against my overheated skin as I tip my head back against the wall. I’m slick and hot, wetter than I can ever remember having been before, so wet that it’s almost hard for me to find purchase with my fingers as I slide them up to my swollen clit. The sensation is intense, pleasure fluttering through me as a moan slips out, and I arch my hips into my hand, chasing more of that feeling.

I shouldn’t think about Gabriel while I do this. I know that. But the truth is, I don’t know what else to think about. Being around him is what’s awakened these feelings, when I thought I’d never have them again. And the ache is so strong, so insistent, that I don’t want to lose it. I want so badly to come, to feel that flood of pleasure, and I don’t want anything to ruin it. To chase it away.

So instead, I close my eyes, and I let myself think about him, as the tip of my finger circles my swollen, pulsing clit. I think of the soft shape of his mouth, so close to mine that night in the living room. The heat of his body next to me on the sofa. The way he towered over me earlier, just in front of me, so that if I’d risen up on my knees, I’d have been eye-level with his cock.

A pulse of arousal throbs through me, that pleasure tightening between my thighs, and I gasp, focusing on that thought. I didn’t let myself look to see if he was aroused, but I imagine that he was, that if I had looked, I would have seen the shape of him through the shorts, thick and hard, aroused by me. I imagine hooking my fingers in the waist of his shorts, tugging them down his hips, his hard cock springing free. I imagine?—

No, not that. Not yet. I rush forward through the fantasy, past the parts that I know might dredge up bad memories, to the part I want to imagine. Gabriel, laying me back on the gym mat, pulling my leggings down, one hand pushing up my workout top so he can drag his lips over the firm plane of my stomach. Those kisses dragging lower, past my navel, down to where my fingers are now. His lips on my clit, kissing, sucking?—

“ Oh!” I moan aloud, arching into my hand, feeling the pleasure intensify at that thought, my orgasm suddenly significantly closer. I’ve always wanted to know what that would feel like, a man’s lips and tongue on my pussy, licking and sucking, how that warm heat would feel on my most sensitive places. I imagine Gabriel groaning as he licks me, murmuring how good I taste against my pussy, fingers stroking my thighs as his tongue swirls over my clit and he begs me to come for him, to come all over his face?—

The orgasm hits me before I’m ready for it, the pressure in my belly spiraling outwards and making me cry out, a pleasure so intense that I couldn’t have anticipated it rushing over me like a tidal wave. My knees nearly buckle, and I gasp, steadying myself against the wall as my fingers keep rubbing over my throbbing clit, a flood of my own arousal dripping over my fingers. I can feel myself clenching on nothing, my body aching to be filled, to have a thick, thrusting cock shoved inside of me as I come hard, and all I can think of is Gabriel, and how he would moan my name as he pushes himself inside of me and fills me up.

“Oh god,” I whisper as the last tremors flutter through me, my hand falling to my side as I lean my forehead against the tiles, trying to catch my breath. I’d forgotten what I was missing, having not touched myself in so long—but I’ve also never come that hard before. It felt so fucking good, my muscles loose, and my body relaxed in a way that feels bone-deep, like a release that I needed more than I knew.

And all I can think, as I remember how to breathe and collect myself, is how it might feel if it were Gabriel’s tongue and fingers, making me come instead.