Page 78 of Gabriel
I dropped my voice to a whisper. “But you see through it, don’t you?”
Her eyes locked on to mine. Something soft flickered behind her blue gaze. I didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just let the moment settle between us.
“I know what it’s like,” she said at last. “Words and truths—secrets you were never meant to uncover—can split your worldin two. I love my parents. And I love Liana like a mother. I was five when I left to live with my biological parents, and I love them a lot, but it changed me fundamentally.”
Her hand twitched in the space between us, pausing for a heartbeat before she reached out and touched me. It was just a brush of her fingers against mine, but it felt like fire.
She didn’t pull away.
I turned my hand, palm up, and let our fingers entwine. My heart thundered. Definitely not the reaction of someone unaffected.
When I looked at her, she was already watching me. The walls between us weren’t down, but they were cracked—enough for heat to seep through.
I shifted slightly, giving her space to retreat.
She didn’t.
Our lips met, soft at first. A tentative question neither of us dared to speak.
Then she leaned closer, deepening the kiss—heat rising, distrust melting, something fragile and real blooming in the embers.
Her hand slid to my jaw. Mine cupped the back of her neck, thumb brushing that tender place beneath her ear. Her breath hitched.
When we finally parted, our foreheads rested together. Her eyes were wide, searching.
“We can’t do this,” she whispered.
“I know.”
But neither of us moved.
The fire had been lit and it wasn’t going to let up anytime soon.
She was the first to move.
An inhale, then the subtle shift of her shoulders as she pulled her hand back. Her eyes flicked away, as if the kiss had betrayed her more than me.
Outside, the yacht rocked gently, the water lapping against the hull with a hollow, rhythmic thump. The mattress creaked beneath us as she readjusted, moving a good two feet away.
Her voice, when it came, was firm. “That shouldn’t have happened.”
I didn’t respond immediately. My pulse was still hammering in my throat. I needed a second to gather what was left of my composure.
So I studied her instead. The way she folded back into herself. Tension drew tight along her spine—an emotional retreat as abrupt as a slammed door.
A part of me admired the control. The discipline. Another part of me hated it.
“Why?” I asked softly.
Her gaze snapped to mine. “Why what?”
“Why shouldn’t it have happened?”
She didn’t answer, but a muscle in her jaw flexed tight.
I tilted my head, eyes narrowing. That quiet, calculating part of me—the one trained to read people like ledgers—clicked into place. Every breath, every blink, the subtle twitch of her mouth.
She was unraveling. She just hadn’t realized how far.
