Page 9 of Inheritance
"Walk with me."
I stood without a word, brushing off the back of my jeans, then followed after him.
We walked in silence. His steps were unhurried, deliberate. Mine synced with his like it had always been this way.
A breeze slipped between us, and all I could smell was him—clean, sharp, unmistakably Gabriel.
He tilted his head, watching me with a careful kind of quiet. “How are you holding up?”
“I’m good,” I lied.
His fingers brushed against mine, the contact light but certain. “You’re stronger than you think.”
I let out a breath. “That’s only because I have you.”
“No,” he said, and there was a weight behind it now. “That strength? It was always there. You just didn’t have anyone who saw it.”
I took his hand. His grip tightened, firm and sure—like he had no intention of letting go, then relaxed. He didn’t lead me so much as he guided me, his pace measured, deliberate. I let my fingers shift in his hold, just enough to feel the roughness of his palm, the faint drag of callouses against my skin. A slow tremor curled through me, heat pooling under my skin.
We walked in silence for a while. The only sounds were the soft crunch of gravel beneath our feet and the steady rhythm of our steps.
“You’re quiet.” He said.
I glanced up at him, “So are you.”
He said nothing, but looked at me expectantly.
I huffed out a quiet breath, looking ahead. “I don’t think Isabelle trusts me.”
“Isabelle doesn’t trust anyone.”
“Does she trust you?”
He didn’t answer right away, and when I looked at him, I found his gaze already on me, heavy, sharp, assessing. Like he was peeling back my words, searching for what I wasn’t saying.
“She trusts that I’ll do what needs to be done,” he said finally.
Before I could think too much about it, his thumb dragged slowly across the back of my hand. A silent reassurance. A quiet distraction.
It worked.
I should have focused on the meaning behind his words, but instead, all I could focus on was the warmth of his skin, the way his fingers curled around mine.
It wasn’t fair, the way he did this. How he could control my feelings better than I could.
The path opened into a clearing, where a large gazebo sat encircled by trees in a beautifully manicured area, its sheer white curtains fluttering in the faintest breeze. Inside, a low daybed stretched against one low wall, its cushions crisp and inviting. A small bar stood in the corner, even more inviting.
“This is pretty,” I said.
“At the right time of day, in spring, this place looks like something out of a painting.”
“I look forward to seeing that.”
He looked around—slow, appraising—before turning back to me. “Do you miss painting?”
“I do, sort of. But the idea of art kind of makes me remember things I’d rather forget.”
He said nothing, moving toward the bar and pouring us each a drink.
