Page 138 of The Beast

The silver pistol clattered from his hand. He stood there for a moment, swaying, a look of surprise on his face. Then he looked down at the red bloom spreading across his chest.

“Well,” he said quietly. “I suppose that’s that.”

He collapsed.

Gabriel stood frozen, gun still raised, smoke curling from the barrel. Behind him, Bella was scrambling to her feet, her eyes fixed on her father’s body.

“Gabriel.” Her voice sounded far away. “Is he dead?”

He forced himself to move. To lower the gun. To check for a pulse, even though he already knew what he’d find.

“He’s dead.”

Gabriel stared at the body—at the man who’d stolen five years of his life, who’d tried to kill him, who’d threatened everything he loved. He waited for the satisfaction. The triumph. The vindication of finally, finally seeing his enemy destroyed.

It didn’t come.

All he felt was tired. And sad. And desperately, achingly grateful that Bella was still alive.

He turned away from the corpse. Bella was standing now, arms wrapped around herself, staring at her father’s body with an expression he couldn’t read.

“Bella?”

Slowly, her eyes lifted to his. They were dry. Shocked. But not grieving. Whatever complicated feelings she had about Sterling Hart, she’d worked through them before Gabriel ever walked through that door.

“Is it over?” she whispered.

Gabriel crossed to her, pulled her into his arms. Held her tight against his chest, feeling her heart beat against his, proof that she was alive, that they were both alive, that this nightmare was finally, finally finished.

“Yeah,” he said. “It’s over.”

The sirens were closer now. Louder. Blue and red lights flickering through the grimy windows as vehicles pulled into the lot outside.

Gabriel held Bella and waited.

He’d made his choice. He’d chosen justice. Chosen the courts. Chosen to let Sterling live if Sterling would let him.

Sterling hadn’t let him.

And Gabriel couldn’t bring himself to regret it.

Later—after the FBI had swarmed the building, after statements had been given and evidence had been catalogued, after Leo had arrived and wrapped Bella in a blanket and pressed a cup of terrible coffee into her hands—Gabriel found himself standing outside the warehouse, staring at the gray morning sky.

Bella appeared beside him. Silent. Warm. Alive.

“You killed him,” she said. Not an accusation. Just a fact.

“He was going to shoot you.”

“I know. If I’d had the gun I would have shot him myself.” She slipped her hand into his. “I’m numb.”

“That’s normal after something like this.”

“Is it?” She laughed—a small, broken sound. “I don’t think anything about our lives is normal.”

He couldn’t argue with that.

They stood together in silence, watching the agents move in and out of the warehouse. Watching the coroner’s van pull up.