Page 89 of The Beast

“Sort of,” I semi-admit. I twist my fingers together in my lap. “But what if it goes to hell? I mean, what if I push too hard and he breaks?”

“Then you’ll deal. But you deal with it together.” David’s voice is gentle but firm. “I mean, come on, Bella. You’re not fragile. You survived losing Gabriel—not to mention surviving his miraculous return. You survived a lifetime of your father’s bullshit. You’re seriously fucking strong. “If Gabriel breaks, you’ll help him put the pieces back together. That’s what love is.”

The word hangs in the air between us—love. From another man, it might sound bitter. From David, it just sounds true.

“He’s right,” Harper says. “And for the record, I’m impressed.” She nods at David. “That was very emotionally intelligent of you.”

“I have hidden depths.” He turns to me with a grin, and there’s no pain in his eyes. Just warmth. And that’s when I know for sure. We’re fixed now. Just friends. No lust. No benefits. No romancy goo.

At least one relationship in my life is on even ground.

Now to get there with Gabriel.

I find him in front of his easel that evening.

He’s been there all day, from the looks of it. Paint smears his forearms, his shirt. One streak across his cheekbone looks like war paint. Canvases surround him—all unfinished. All fragments of whatever he’s trying to exorcise.

But there’s something different about this one.

It’s me. Or the suggestion of me—curves and shadows, the impression of a woman reaching toward something. Unlike the others, this one has depth. Layers. It’s not finished, but it’s closer than anything else he’s painted since he came back.

“You were working on that one this morning,” I say as the door clicks shut behind me, blocking the sound of tonight’s first fight at The Beast.

Gabriel doesn’t look up. “Couldn’t sleep.”

“You never sleep anymore.”

“I sleep.”

I suppose he must, but not enough. Never enough.

I cross the room, stepping over discarded brushes and crumpled paper towels stained with color. When I reach him, I don’t touch. Just stand close enough that he can feel my presence.

“Gabriel. Look at me.”

He doesn’t move for a long moment. Then, slowly, he sets down his brush and turns.

The exhaustion in his face makes my heart ache. Dark circles deep beneath his eyes. His beard wild and untrimmed. The haunted look of a man who’s fighting a war he doesn’t believe he can win.

“You can’t keep doing this,” I say softly. “You can’t keep running from me.”

“I’m not running. I’m being realistic.”

“You’re being a coward.”

The word lands like a slap. Something flickers in his eyes—anger, maybe, or hurt.

“You think I want this?” His voice is rough. “You think I enjoy sleeping on the couch while you’re not even twenty feet away? I can hear you breathing, Bella. I can smell your shampoo on the pillows. Every part of me wants to be in that bed with you, but I can’t.

“Can’t what? Can’t trust yourself? Can’t risk hurting me again?”

“Yes.” The word comes out like it’s been torn from him. “Exactly that.”

“So your solution is to torture us both indefinitely? To live in the same apartment but never touch? To watch each other from across a room for the rest of our lives?”

“My solution is to keep you alive.”

“I don’t want to just be alive, you idiot. I want to live. With you. All of you—including the parts you’re afraid of.”