Page 15 of The Beast

This is none of those things, and I hurry to catch up to him while taking it all in.

The place is like something from a noir movie—all exposed brick and dramatic shadows cast by pools of amber light. The distant thump of a musical bass line vibrates through the concrete floor. And somewhere deeper in the building, people are talking. Even laughing.

A speakeasy, maybe?

I jump from a sudden roar—crowd noise, boisterous and drunk—followed by the dull thud of something heavy hitting the ground. So, apparently not a speakeasy.

I frown, wanting to ask Gabriel, but I’ve already figured out that he’ll tell me only what he wants to tell me—and that only in his own sweet time.

I quicken my pace so I can get a bit ahead of him, then catch his eye. “All right. I give up. What is this place?”

He holds my gaze for exactly one beat, then looks away, very pointedly not answering me.

Seriously, what the fuck?

Is he trying to intimidate me? To freak me out?

Yes, dummy, my better angel whispers. What reality have you been living in?

I grimace because, well, yeah. Duh.

But screw it and screw him. I have absolutely no intention of giving him the pleasure of watching me gawk and gape. So I do my best to look bland. Not impressed or intrigued. Just hanging out. Just existing. As if this place isn’t a walking question mark on the forehead of the man I love.

Or, rather, on the man I used to love.

Because, as much as I hate to admit it, I don’t know this Gabriel. More, I’m starting to fear that the tidal wave of hope I’d felt upon getting Leo’s text was premature. That my Gabriel really did die in that fire, and this man in Gabriel’s clothing rose from the ashes, a new man whom I don’t know, and who doesn’t love me.

No.

I can’t believe that. I won’t believe it.

Somewhere in this Gabriel-clone is the man I love. He’s traumatized, yes. But I’ll fight for him.

I’ll get him back.

I will. Because I don’t think I can survive losing him all over again.

As we continue to move, we pass a doorway, and through it, I catch a glimpse of what looks like a high-stakes poker game—men in expensive suits gathered around a table covered in chips, the air hazy with cigar smoke, the tension palpable even from here.

Another doorway. Another glimpse. This time it’s a bar—sleek and sophisticated, all dark wood and leather, with beautiful people draped over beautiful furniture while bartenders in black mix drinks with exotic colors and pour shots of whiskey for the hard-core patrons.

Then we pass a doorway that opens onto a sight that makes my breath catch.

A boxing ring.

Not the kind you’d find in a gym. This is something else entirely—a raised platform surrounded by well-dressed spectators, two men circling each other with bare fists, blood already speckling the canvas beneath their feet. I can barely see through the crowd that watches with the kind of avid attention usually reserved for high-stakes auctions.

They’re betting on this, I realize. They’re betting on men beating each other bloody.

“What is this place?” The question comes out barely above a whisper.

I glance at Gabriel, and something that might be amusement flickers across his face. “Home,” he says, and keeps walking, until we finally arrive at a door at the end of a very long corridor.

He unlocks it with a keycard and holds the door open, waiting.

I draw a wary breath, then step inside.

The space is Spartan. Expensive, but cold. And small.