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It occurs to me that Thompson just elbowed me twice. He actually hit me.

I'm about to rip into him, when a body pushes between us with enough  force to send Thompson sprawling on his ass. Gabriel stands before me  with an expression of rage so fierce my skin prickles.

I can only blink up at him before he grabs me close and hauls me up in his arms.

I will not swoon.

But my head falls to his shoulder. And I cling. Because he is a wall  against the world. My wall. He moves through the crowd without pause,  and they get out of his way, instinctively knowing he will mow them down  if they don't.

One snarling look at security has them hustling us to a door that leads  to a quiet, dark hall. Compared to the bright heat of the lights and  noise of chaos outside, it's like a balm to my tense body. I sag further  into Gabriel's hold.

He doesn't stop but marches along, muttering under his breath. It's a  stream of pissed off motherfuckers and bloody stupid and son of a bitch  mixed with other choice words. I let his low growls flow over me like  warm hands.

My heart is still racing, and I'm shivering. I don't want to. I want to  be strong. But the adrenaline is wearing off, and I've no place to go  but down.

The side of my face throbs like a heartbeat, pain punching out in all  directions. I think about Thompson elbowing me and whimper despite my  anger.

Gabriel's arms squeeze around me. "Hush, now. I've got you."

We enter Kill John's dressing room, and the guys are instantly up and surrounding us.

"What the fuck was that shit? What happened to Sophie?" Jax says, peering at me. "You all right, honey?"

"It is bloody apparent that she is not," Gabriel snaps at him as he pushes past and sets me down on a chair.

"Fuck. That was a disaster," Killian mutters. "Shit crowd control. We should have pulled you in with us, Sophie."

"No, you shouldn't have," I say weakly as Gabriel kneels before me, his gaze darting over my face. "You would have been mobbed."

"They wouldn't have hurt us." Rye looks sick, his golden complexion pasty as his gaze lingers on me.

"You don't know that."

Gabriel scowls and thumbs aside a lock of my hair. "Got you good, chatty  girl." Anger radiates over his frame. "You're bleeding."

"Here." Whip hands him a first aid kit and gives me a smile. "Babe, you stick with us from now on, right?"

My lip wobbles. "Right."

"I want to go back there and kick some ass," Brenna mutters. She's lost  her glasses, and her hair is mussed. I hadn't even noticed her in the  scuffle. She hands me a cold compress. "Those fuckwads."

From behind her, Libby watches with wide eyes, as does Jules. They're all watching, sadly looking at my face. I duck my head.

"All right," Gabriel says in a firm tone. "Let's give Sophie some room. Go about your business."

No one argues, though Jax gives my shoulder a squeeze before leaving.

With Gabriel's body blocking everyone's view, it's almost as if we're  alone. He opens a disinfectant wipe and, with a frown, gently dabs at  the bottom of my eye socket. It burns, but I keep still.

His voice is soft when he finally speaks. "I could kill him."

"You going to jail over human garbage would be a travesty. And a wasted effort."

The cool cloth runs along my bruised face. "No, it wouldn't."

I clutch his wide wrist, feel the rapid thrum of his pulse just below  the surface. And his eyes meet mine, all dark with rage. It softens my  heart, even though I have to be the rational one here. "No retaliation,  sunshine. Promise me."

When he doesn't answer, I stroke the skin of his wrist with my thumb. "Please, Gabriel. For me."

His lips flatten until they're edged in white, but he nods, his gaze  sliding back to my eye. With careful touches, he cleans me up and then  smears a layer of Vaseline over the cut. "Keep putting this on until  that heals. It will help prevent scarring."         

     



 

He hands me the tube of Vaseline and holds the ice pack to my face.

"You an expert on dealing with contusions?" I joke. I have to joke or I'll cry.

He stares back at me, his expression solemn. "Yes."

My hand settles over his, ready to take up the job of keeping the  compress in place, but he doesn't let go. His thumb edges out, strokes  my face, rasping over the corner of my lip. "Whip is correct. No more  going out on your own."

"I'm a big girl. I can handle myself."

He looks pointedly at my face.

"A fucked-up fluke," I retort.

Again, the tip of his thumb caresses my cheek, touches my lips. His lids  lower a fraction as he inhales sharply. "You asked a favor of me. This  is mine. Don't make me worry about this happening again." He holds my  gaze, and the emotion there is a punch to the system. "Please. I won't  be able to function properly."

I swallow past the lump in my throat. Tears well in my eyes. Stupid  tears. I start to tremble, everything crashing all at once. "I was  scared."

He sucks in a breath, and his forehead rests against mine. His free hand  goes to the back of my neck, holding me there, steady, solid.

"So was I," he whispers, shocking me enough that I flinch.

Misinterpreting my surprise for pain, he hisses out a curse. His fingers  give me a gentle squeeze. "You're safe, Sophie. This will never happen  again."

"I know." I take a shaky breath as I close my eyes and breath in his scent. "You keep your people safe."

"I look out for my people." His lips ghost over my unmarred cheek, the  touch so light I might have imagined it. Only I didn't. I feel it to my  toes. It hums along my skin even as he pulls back slightly to look me in  the eye. "I protect what's mine."







Gabriel







It takes me too bloody long to get away. Too long, holding in the rage,  breathing like a normal man, talking like a calm one. By the time I head  out into the back alley, my hands are shaking so badly, I can barely  open the door.

Warm, muggy air slaps heavy against my skin. I draw in a breath, smell  the sour stench of garbage and the musky fug of wet cobbles. Doesn't  matter. I breathe in again, slow, long. Dizziness threatens, and I lean  against the slimy back wall of the theater.

My suit will be ruined. People will notice.

I don't sodding care. Not anymore.

Staring up at the bleak, orange light flickering by the door, I wonder  who the hell I am now. Scottie is crumbling. The cracks of his venerable  armor are appearing over my weary body. And Gabriel? Only one person  calls me that name anymore. Only one person makes me feel like a man of  tender flesh and not a cold machine. And I let her down.

The image of Sophie's battered face fills my mind. The way that fucking  cockwomble bashed her with his elbow. Twice. Before I could get to her.

My heart beats so hard, my shirt trembles. Again, I am short of breath,  struggling to get enough in my tight lungs. The ground beneath me tilts  and rolls. I'm going to be sick.

Two rapid steps have me hunched over a rubbish bin. I retch until there's nothing left. Until my throat burns.

Fuck, I hate that it takes me an eternity to stand straight, and that  even when I do, my head throbs, feels both too heavy and too light. I  hate that my hand still shakes as I take the silk handkerchief from my  breast pocket to wipe my mouth.

Warm wetness rolls along my lip. The white silk handkerchief is stained  crimson. Another nosebleed. My fingers go cold. I think of Mum when she  faded-the dizziness, fainting spells, nose bleeds.

Another wave of cold washes through me.

The titter of feminine laughter rings through the night. Little snatches  of conversation bleeds in and out-how hot Jax was during his solo, how  this one prefers watching Whip beat his drums, the other wants to have  Killian's love child. Concertgoers leaving the show, enjoying  themselves. They're calling this the best night of their lives.

I helped bring it to them. These girls will never know that, or care. As  it should be. But the pride I feel in knowing I brought them a bit of  happiness is there all the same.

If I'm gone, someone else will do the job. But will they do it as well?  Will they watch out for my boys and make certain everything runs like  silk? Or will they think only of their own gain?

The fact that there are no guarantees chafes.

Laughter rings out again, husky, unfettered femininity. It reminds me of  Sophie's laugh, though hers always has a tinge of self-deprecation to  it, as though she's part of the joke, never ridiculing.

I've never been one to freely laugh and often found those who did rather  annoying. Life isn't a joke-not for me. And yet I want to swim in the  sound of Sophie's laughter, let it cleanse me and wash away all the  heaviness in my life.         

     



 

I don't know how to ask for that, or even how to let myself ask.

I called her mine. She'll want an explanation for that. I've none to  give. It just is. Whether I fuck her or not, it doesn't matter; she has  me now. Even if she doesn't want me.