Page 72 of The Beast

Chapter Twenty-Two

Morning comes too soon.

I wake to the smell of coffee brewing and bacon sizzling, and I stay under the covers for a moment, staring at the painting of myself and taking stock of all the things that have shifted in the cyclone that has been these last few days.

Gabriel is alive.

Gabriel believes me.

Gabriel painted me like something precious, even when he hated me.

All of these things are true. All of these things should make me feel something—joy, relief, hope, anything.

And I do. I feel all of that.

But somehow I feel hollow, too. As if all his confessions and kisses and apologies will never be enough to fill the ache that looms inside me like some dark, empty, hungry place.

But hungry for what? His apology? He’s already given that. His love? I truly believe I still have that. His trust?

Maybe.

Because no matter how much he might have loved me five years ago, he still didn’t trust me.

He had good reason. The little voice in my head is right. But I’m done thinking about it. Instead, I push the thoughts aside, then pad to the bathroom in my shirt and underwear.

I find a robe hanging there and put that on before heading to the main room and the scent of breakfast.

He’s at the counter, shirtless, wearing only a pair of low-slung sweatpants. The scars on his back are as brutal as the ones on his chest—long, raised welts that crisscross his skin like a roadmap of suffering. He must have heard me because he turns, and his face softens when he sees me.

“Morning.” He gestures to the counter. “Coffee’s ready. No kitchen, but we can go up to the hotel restaurant. Or I can ask Anissa to bring something down.”

I know there’s nothing between them, but just the idea that she takes care of him like that makes me unreasonably jealous. “The Gabriel Grimm I knew wouldn’t be without cereal.”

He laughs. “Kashi it is. I can even manage a banana cut up on top.”

I laugh. “Such refined taste.”

“That’s me. A born aristocrat.”

I pour myself coffee, then follow him to the tiny table for our breakfast. It’s surreal, this domestic scene. Gabriel making me breakfast like we’re a normal couple. But that’s not the real surprise. No, that’s the way being here feels. Comfortable. Relaxed. Both casual and intimate.

It’s as if the last five years didn’t happen. Like we didn’t spend part of last night fucking out our grief on a velvet couch surrounded by paintings of our lost love.

“You saw the painting,” he says quietly. Not a question.

I pause, a spoonful of cereal frozen in mid-air. “The one by the bed? It would have been hard not to.”

“I painted it about a year after Aspen. Couldn’t stop myself. I tried to destroy it a dozen times. Couldn’t do that either.”

“Gabe.”

“I hated myself for still wanting you despite what I believed you’d done.”

He shakes his head. “Anyway. We should eat before this gets soggy.”

He’s deflecting. Protecting himself before the conversation gets too real. I recognize the tactic because I use it too.

“Okay,” I say, letting him have this one.