Page 59 of Inheritance
She was trying to tell me something.
My ears still rang. Everything muffled.
Her voice came through like it was underwater, then suddenly clear as day and ear-splitting loud.
“Sophia!”
She was pointing.
Pointing at Gabriel on his back.
A Sinclair man on top of him, knife in both hands, pressing down with all his weight, snarling, blood dripping from his face onto Gabriel beneath him.
Gabriel strained, muscles flexing beneath blood-slick skin, one arm locked at the other man’s wrist, keeping the blade inches from his chest. Gabriels other arm lay limp at his side, blood flowing with each heartbeat. His jaw clenched. The man above him grunted, pressing down with all his weight, face twisted, blood dripping from his chin.
Slowly—inch by inch—Gabriel began to turn the knife sideways. Not back, not yet. But off-center. Off-balance. Just enough to shift the fight.
I didn’t hesitate.
I dropped to Sal’s side. My fingers closed around the shotgun’s grip, slick with Sal’s blood. I hauled it up, arms straining under the weight. My pulse thundering in my head.
I braced the shotgun against my shoulder. Short, quick breaths. The barrel swayed, no matter how hard I tried to keep it aimed at his chest.
The man didn’t see me. He was too locked in—snarling, teeth bared, murder in his eyes. He reeled back, ripped his wrist free from Gabriel’s hand, gripped the knife with both hands high above his head, ready to bear down on him with everything he had.
The man leaned back a final inch, muscles flexing, eyes wide with rage. He roared, thrusting the blade down.
And the shotgun roared—slamming into my shoulder like a punch from God.
The mans chest bloomed like a rose as he flew back in a wheezing hiss, hitting the floor with a long wet slap, a dark pool of blood spreading in a huge circle around something that didn’t look human anymore.
Sophia
Gabriel’s hands were the first thing I felt. Warm, steady, grounding. They cupped the sides of my face—not hard, not soft either. Like he knew I needed to feel the pressure to believe this was real.
“Sophia,” he said. His voice steady enough for me to latch onto.
I couldn’t breathe. Or I was breathing too fast. My ribs squeezed inward, every inhale too shallow, too frantic.
He leaned closer, forehead nearly brushing mine. His voice dropped lower, soothing. “Look at me. You’re okay. I’m right here. With you.”
I forced my eyes to stay open. His filled my vision. Deep blue, with a glint that wasn’t cold like it used to be. Not empty. It was something else now. Like he was more alive than he’d ever been.
“Breathe deep, and slow,” he said. One hand moved to my chest, just over my heart, the other flattening over my stomach. “Here and here. Not up here.”
I tried.
It didn’t work the first time.
I inhaled deeply, slower this time, my breath shaky. Then again. And again.
His hand stayed on my chest like a weight keeping me in place, tethering me to the moment. The other slid up to my neck, thumb tenderly brushing the corner of my jaw.
His face was smeared with blood. It trailed down his temple, dried at the edge of his mouth. But somehow he didn’t look wrecked. He looked alive. Focused. Unshaken.
Strong jaw, dark stubble catching the light. Eyes too intense to hold for long, but impossible to look away from.
“That’s it,” he said, quieter now. “You’re alright. It’s over now.”
