Page 51 of Wings
"Want dessert?" Gabe asked, but his tone had changed. The easy romance replaced by something watchful.
"Maybe we could get it to go?" I suggested, hating how desperate I sounded. "I really am tired."
"Of course." He was already signaling for the check, and I wanted to cry at ruining our night.
The ride home felt like traveling through molasses, every mile stretching longer than the last. Gabe's body was rigid beneath my arms, his shoulders set in a way that made my stomach churn with more than motion sickness.
I pressed my face against his leather jacket, breathing in his scent, trying to ground myself. But the usual comfort wasn't there. He knew I'd lied. Of course he knew. The man who noticed when I forgot lunch could certainly tell when I was concealing terror.
By the time we pulled into the clubhouse lot, my whole body was shaking. Not from cold or fear of Connor, but from the weight of what I'd done. Rule number three—honesty, always. The most important rule. The foundation everything else was built on.
And I'd shattered it for the sake of pasta and candlelight.
Gabe helped me off the bike with the same careful hands as always, but he didn't pull me close after. Didn't call me babygirl or praise me for the date. Just placed his hand on my lower back—still protective, still claiming, but distant somehow—and guided me inside.
The clubhouse was rowdy with evening activity. Pool games and laughter and the clink of beer bottles. But Gabe steered me past all of it, up the stairs, down the hall to my room, then through to the nursery. Each step felt like walking toward judgment, and the worst part was knowing I deserved whatever came next.
Inside the nursery, the fairy lights that usually meant safety felt like spotlights exposing my failure. The room that had been sanctuary now felt like a courtroom. Gabe closed the door with quiet finality, and when he turned to face me, his expression made my knees weak.
Not angry. That would have been easier. This was disappointment, deep and encompassing, and it hurt worse than any rage could have.
"Kiara," he said, voice low and controlled. "Look at me."
I forced my eyes up from where I'd been studying the carpet. His face was set in serious lines, the Daddy who'd given me rules and structure and safety. Who I'd failed.
"What is rule number three?"
The question landed like a stone in my chest. I knew this was coming, had known since the lie left my lips, but hearing it made everything real.
"Honesty," I whispered. "Always."
"And what happened at the restaurant?"
My throat closed up. The words stuck there, sharp as glass, not wanting to emerge. But this was my chance to fix it, to at least be honest now.
"I saw someone," I managed, voice cracking. "From before. One of Alex's . . . friends. Connor. He used to—" I stopped, swallowed hard. "He scared me. Brought everything back."
"And when I asked what was wrong?"
"I lied." The admission came out small, broken. "Said I was just tired."
"Why?" Not accusatory, just seeking to understand. That almost made it worse.
The tears came then, hot and shameful. "Because I didn't want to ruin our night. Because we were having such a perfect time and I was normal for once and not the girl with the dangerous ex and the baggage and—"
"Stop." He crossed to me in two strides, hands gentle on my shoulders despite his serious expression. "You're spiraling. Breathe."
I tried, but the sobs were coming faster now. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I know I broke the rule and disappointed you and—"
"Shh." He pulled me against his chest, and I broke completely. His arms came around me, strong and steady, holding me while I fell apart. "There we go. Let it out."
I cried into his shirt—ugly, wrenching sobs that left me hiccupping and snotty. Cried for the ruined date and the broken rule and the fear that still lived in my bones despite all his protection. Cried because I'd had one job—be honest—and I'd failed at the first real test.
He held me through it all, one hand stroking my hair, the other rubbing circles on my back. Murmuring soft things I couldn't quite hear over my own breakdown. When the storm finally passed, leaving me wrung out and empty, he guided me to sit on the bed.
"Better?" he asked, using tissues to clean my face with the same patience he showed with everything.
I nodded, not trusting my voice.
