Page 105 of Dark Billionaire Stalker
Beside me, Gabriel's breathing evens out into the rhythm of sleep. But even in unconsciousness, he doesn't release me. His arm stays locked around my waist, his body curved protectively around mine.
Possessively. Desperately.
Like a man trying to hold onto something he's afraid he's about to lose.
I lie awake for hours, staring at the darkness, my hand resting on my stomach where our child—his child—grows in secret.
Soon I'll meet Zach, and I'll learn the truth about my father.
And then... then I'll have to decide what to do with that knowledge. Whether to confront Gabriel. Whether to stay or run. Whether to tell him about the baby that binds us together in ways neither of us anticipated.
So many decisions. So many possible futures, branching out from this moment like cracks in glass.
When I finally drift off, I dream of serpents—serpents whispering truths I can't quite hear, coiling around me in an embrace that could be protection or imprisonment.
I dream of Gabriel, standing over a body I can't see, blood on his hands and sorrow in his eyes.
I dream of my mother, running through endless corridors with a baby in her arms, looking back at something terrible that's always just out of sight.
And I dream of a child—my child, our child—with Gabriel's dark eyes and my stubborn chin, reaching for me from the center of a labyrinth I don't know how to escape.
When I wake, the morning sun is streaming through the windows, and Gabriel is already gone.
His side of the bed is cold.
And the serpent on the headboard seems to be watching me, waiting to see what I'll do next.
Chapter 26 - Gabriel
She's slipping away from me.
I can feel it—a subtle withdrawal, a distance that wasn't there before. She's still in my bed, still responds when I touch her, still says the right things at the right times. But something has shifted. Some essential part of her has retreated to a place I can't reach.
I know I should tell her. Bryan's words have been echoing in my head for days:Tell her before Zachary poisons her against you completely.Every time I look at her, I rehearse the conversation in my mind.Your father was a monster. I killed him before you were born. I didn't know about you—didn't know you existed.
But the words won't come. Every time I open my mouth to speak them, I see the way she looks at me now—wary, yes, but still with that undercurrent of desire, of connection. I imagine that look transforming into horror, revulsion, hatred.
I'm not ready to see that. I'm not ready to lose her.
So I do what I've always done when words fail me. I take. I claim. I remind her, in the only language I truly understand, that she belongs to me.
It's evening when I find her in the library, curled in one of the leather chairs with a book she's not reading. Her eyes are distant, fixed on something I can't see. She doesn't notice me in the doorway, doesn't register my presence until I speak.
"You've been hiding from me."
She startles, the book slipping from her fingers. "Gabriel. I didn't hear you come in."
"You never do." I cross the room slowly, watching her the way I might watch prey. "You've been distracted. Distant. What are you thinking about?"
"Nothing. Just tired."
A lie. I can taste it in the air between us, sour and sharp. She's been lying a lot lately—small lies, careful lies, lies that slide out so smoothly I almost believe them.
Almost.
"Stand up."
She blinks. "What?"
