Page 65 of The Beast

“Why am I here?” he repeats, turning to face me. “Because I was an idiot.”

The words are flat. Simple. And as they hang between us, I feel something break open inside me. Hope, tentative and terrified, but stirring back to life.

“I should never have believed what I knew in my heart was a lie.”

He breaks off, then presses the heel of his hand against his eyes like he can force the tears back through sheer will. “I’m sorry. I’m so goddammed sorry.”

I should feel vindicated. Should feel triumphant that he finally sees the truth. But all I feel is tired. So desperately, bone-deep tired.

He draws a breath, then meets my eyes. “I can’t prove it wasn’t you,” he says, his voice flat. “The woman with the dual-colored eyes. I have no proof. All I have is what I know in my heart—what I should have always known. But I do know it. And I’m so, so sorry.”

“Sorry,” I repeat, the word bitter on my tongue.

How many times have I prayed for this, dreamed of it—Gabriel finally seeing the truth, finally understanding that I never could have hurt him?

A thousand times? A million?

But never did I imagine it would feel like this. Like a wound being reopened just as it was starting to scar over.

I set my whiskey glass on the small table beside the couch, then make finger quotes. “You know it? After everything? After the accusations and the stalking and the public humiliation, poof, you just know it?”

His brow furrows, but he says nothing. Smart man.

I take a step toward him. “And I’m supposed to—what? Fall into your arms? Forgive you? Pretend you haven’t fucking tortured me ever since you slid into that damn Town Car beside me?”

“No.” He shakes his head and takes a step closer, and I breathe in the familiar scent of sandalwood and vanilla. The scent of my Gabe. Except maybe he’s not anymore.

“I don’t expect forgiveness,” he says. “I don’t deserve it.”

“You’re right. You don’t.”

“I know.”

“You destroyed me, you prick.” The words lash out before I can stop them, all the pain I’ve been holding back finally breaking free like water through a crumbling dam. “Not five years ago—now. This week. You walked back into my life and accused me of killing the person I loved most in the world. Do you have any fucking idea what that felt like?”

“Yes.” His voice is barely a whisper. “I know exactly what that’s like.”

The words stop me cold.

Because of course he does. That’s what he’s been living with for five years. Believing the woman he loved had tried to kill him. Carrying that betrayal like a knife in his chest, every single day, with every breath.

We’ve both been living in that same hell. Just different corners of it.

“I hate you,” I say, but the words come out wrong. Too soft. Too broken. Too much like the opposite of what they mean.

“I know.”

“I should tell you to leave. That I never want to see you again.”

He takes a step toward me. “You should. You should kick me out. Push me away.” His eyes meet mine. “I don’t deserve a second chance. Not after what I let myself believe.”

I cross my arms. “Then why the hell are you here?”

He looks toward Stillwater. “Because I can’t stay away.” His voice is a whisper, so low I can barely hear him. “I’ve tried. God, I’ve tried. But every time I close my eyes, I see your face. Every time I see something beautiful, I want to share it with you. Dammit, Bella, I hate that you still have this power over me. I hate that even when I believed you wanted me dead, I still⁠—”

He stops. Swallows hard.

“You still what?”