Page 52 of Final Vendetta

Gradually slowing my movements, I showered kisses all over her skin.

“I love you.”

“And I love you.” She looked over her shoulder at me. “Samuel. Gideon. And all the pieces of you.”

I pressed a soft kiss to her mouth, our tongues briefly tangling.

Carefully pulling out of her, I helped her onto her back and wrapped her in my arms, basking in the unwavering devotion she had for me.

Since the accident, I tried to bury Gideon Saint. I thought that was the only way I could do right by her.

It took almost losing her again for me to admit the truth.

Gideon Saint was a part of me. As was Samuel Tate.

Instead of pretending to be someone I wasn’t, it was time for me to embrace all parts of myself —the goodandthe bad.

The darkandthe light.

Just as Imogene had.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Imogene

The sunlight was soft as it spilled into the bedroom, painting the walls in hues of gold and amber. I lay beside Gideon, my head nestled against his shoulder, finding comfort in the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath me. A smile tugged at my lips as I reflected on the events of last night, marveling at how different things were now that we finally shared our truths.

I absentmindedly ran my fingers over his new tattoo that covered the old bullet wound, my name intricately woven into the swirling pattern. I wasn’t sure why the tattoo surprised me so much. But it gave me hope we’d make it through this and have the happily ever after we both deserved.

Moving from the tattoo, I continued my exploration of his body, tracing the various scars. Each one told a story. A map of his pain. A testament to how much he endured in order to survive.

“That one,” he began in a low, rough voice as I brushed my fingers along the jagged line near his ribcage, “is from a knife.”

I stilled, looking up at him, surprised by his words.

For weeks, he purposefully avoided talking about anything remotely relating to that time of his life. As if it would make it disappear from his past.

Not anymore.

And I wanted to know everything he suffered, regardless of how painful it might be to hear.

“Sometimes we got to choose our weapons,” he explained, his words devoid of emotion, like he was reciting someone else’s story. “Other times, they were chosen for us. This was one of the times they chose for us. Of course, they didn’t tell me my opponent used to be a butcher. He knew exactly how to cut a man without killing him, at least not right away. Every slice was calculated, meant to weaken me, bleed me out just enough to give him the upper hand. To really put on a good show. After all, if you put on a good show, the powers-that-be might fix a fight to make sure you won. Make sure you kept winning.”

My heart clenched, tears stinging my eyes as I fought to keep my emotions in check. He didn’t need my pity. He’d made that clear before. But how could I not ache for what he’d endured? How could I not want to take that pain and carry it for him?

“I got lucky,” he said. “He got too confident, and I managed to disarm him.” He let out a humorless chuckle. “But luck only gets you so far in a place like that.”

I looked up at him, my eyes tracing over the chiseled features of his face.

Weeks ago, I didn’t really see Samuel whenever I looked at him, except in his eyes.

Now, I started to see pieces of the man he once was. In the deep furrow of his brow. In the firm and unyielding line of his lips. In the tense set of his jaw.

My fingers trailed to a long, thin scar running along the side of his ribs. “And this one?”

His silence stretched for so long I thought he wouldn’t answer. Maybe he couldn’t remember.

Then he said, “His name was Carlos. It was his first fight. He couldn’t have been much older than eighteen.”

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