Page 32 of Gabriel (Legacy of Heathens #4)

Gabriel

A nother few days passed in slow, aching silence and a never-ending marathon of Stephen King movies.

If Amara had ever bothered to come back and see me, I might’ve expressed my concerns over her selection. But she’d kept her distance for three days. Smart of her, but inconvenient for my scheming.

I kept track of the ship’s subtle shifts, the creak of boots across the hall, and the number of times Elira came to see me.

“Ah, Satan’s approaching,” I muttered, hearing the echo of footsteps against the deck. Elira walked like she was on a mission that would inevitably result in someone’s demise. Hopefully not mine.

The door swung open and she appeared, carrying a food tray.

“This catering to you is getting so fucking annoying,” she muttered as a greeting.

I flashed her a smile, keeping a keen eye on her movements. “Well, you can always uncuff me and I can fetch my own food.”

“It’s not like you could run off, considering we’re in the middle of the ocean.”

“See,” I drawled. “It’s a win-win.”

She rolled her eyes. “Not exactly, considering you would kill us all in our sleep.”

“Not everyone.” I chuckled, the sound lacking humor.

“Yeah, yeah, I know. You’d keep Amara alive because you’re borderline stupid obsessed.” She scoffed. “Men!”

I ignored her sarcasm. “Where is Amara?”

She shrugged. “Not here.”

“Obviously.”

“What did you do or say to send her running?”

It was my turn to shrug. “Nothing.”

She narrowed her eyes at me, then placed a tray on the side table. She leaned over slightly to uncuff me, then pulled out a gun and took several steps back. She took a seat on the farthest chair in the room, crossing her legs, pointing her gun at me.

“Go freshen up and do your business, then get to eating. I don’t want to hang out here all day. I have better things to do.”

I headed into the bathroom, then quickly took a shower before I selected a change of clothes. I had to admit, the women had done well when they stocked up my wardrobe and toiletries for me. There was no expense spared.

Once done, I stepped out and found Elira still in the same spot.

“You and Amara sure know my tastes,” I remarked, taking a seat on the bed. “Every time I look at the wardrobe you procured for me, I’m impressed anew.”

She shrugged. “Amara’s doing. I would have left you uncomfortable and stinky.”

“It seems Amara knows me well, then,” I remarked, although I couldn’t quite decide whether it was surprising or not that she did.

“Of course she does,” Elira said with a smug smile. “Listen, Santos, I’m going to give you a tip or two.”

I reached for the egg sandwich.

“This ought to be good. Let’s hear it,” I muttered, then bit into it.

As if she were settling in for a long conversation, she sank deeper into the chair, then said, “Amara is a no-nonsense girl. She might not be my mother’s biological daughter, but she might as well be.”

I swallowed, the food going down harder, kind of like her message. “You don’t say.”

“Yep, the two are the same,” she continued. “So, in order to get Amara to like you, forget charm and romance. Instead, you need to prove to her that you’d have her back. She appreciates loyalty, reason, and… well, sex above all else.”

I took a drink of the hot coffee, pondering her words before replying. “So how will that work out for you and your brother, then?”

She raised her eyebrows. “What do you mean?”

“What do you think will happen when Amara learns of your and Jet’s betrayal?” I clarified. “You and your brother are certainly not keeping her in the loop, are you? Where’s your loyalty?”

Her expression cracked for a flicker of a second before a cold mask slid into place, and she shot to her feet.

“You’re done eating,” she gritted, then closed the distance between us, gun still in her hands.

It was obvious I’d hit a sore spot because in the next breath, my wrists were cuffed and she left, slamming the door behind her.

Late afternoon bled into early evening, and it seemed another day would waste away untouched. Outside, the light turned into the kind of gold that always reminded me of blood on sand.

That’s when I heard it: the soft pad of footsteps. Hers.

The door clicked open.

No knock, no warning—just Amara, shadowed in the doorway.

My heart slammed against my ribs the moment she stepped into the cabin, tray in hand.

She strode in with the casual grace of someone who knew exactly what kind of storm she could stir.

She hadn’t sent Elira this time.

Thank all the saints, because I was more than glad to see Amara. In fact, I was lit up like a boy holding his first BB gun on Christmas morning, hands shaking with excitement too big for his body.

“I’m not freeing both of your wrists,” she said, not meeting my eyes as she entered. “Not after last time.”

“Understood,” I replied evenly. “Thank you for coming.”

She glanced at me then, clearly surprised by my civility and lack of resistance.

“I only came because Elira refused to and the men are busy running maintenance checks down below,” she mumbled.

Her guard stayed up as she unshackled one wrist.

I took the tray, settled it on my lap, and began eating with one hand while the silence stretched between us.

“You were right,” I said eventually. “I’m overprotective of Anya.” She didn’t respond, just shifted her weight. “And you’re right about my flirting. It’s a reflex. Not one I’m proud of.”

She walked over, her steps careful, and came to stand at the foot of the bed before she replied, “I didn’t say anything about your flirting.”

“I was out of line the last time you were here. Not just what I said about Jet… but how I said it. You didn’t deserve that.” I looked up and met her eyes. “I was angry. And scared for Anya’s safety.”

She crossed her arms thoughtfully. “Scared of what?”

I swallowed, gaze dropping, and let the silence simmer before answering.

“Of losing Anya,” I murmured. I heard the subtle shift in her breath. She didn’t sit, but she didn’t leave either. “My mom’s sacrificed so much for me. I owe it to her—and Raphael—to keep Anya safe.”

She finally sat beside me and I resisted the urge to exhale in relief.

“I called Anya,” she said. “She’s safe. She told me she’s never met Jet.”

I tensed. “You believe her?”

“I do.”

“What if he’s using an alias?”

She shook her head. “He isn’t.”

I placed the tray aside, appetite fading, and leaned back, eyes on the ceiling. “What makes you so sure?”

She sighed. “I don’t want to betray Anya’s trust. The man she described… it can’t possibly be Jet, because he’d never run from you.”

“So there’s a man?” Why hadn’t she mentioned him to me? Maybe it was a recent thing, and deep down, I was certain it had to be Jet. “Amara, I promise you, that’s Jet.”

“Santos, drop it. There is no Jet and Anya,” she claimed stubbornly.

“Did you call Jet and ask him?” She tensed, and I silently cursed myself. “If he has nothing to hide, he should be answering your calls.”

“I’m not calling him,” she gritted. “And this has nothing to do with him, so put it through your head once and for all. Besides, let’s say—hypothetically—that Jet has met Anya. He would never hurt her.”

“But he’s a Tijuana heir, and even if it doesn’t hurt Anya, it will hurt the woman who I consider my mother.

” Amara shot me a surprised look, clearly not following.

It was comical how clueless she was about me, considering I’d looked into every detail of this woman.

But that was not what mattered right now.

“Sailor was kidnapped and tortured by Santiago Tijuana. It almost destroyed her, and I won’t allow the reminder of that dark time to touch her again. ”

“I didn’t know that,” she muttered.

“You wouldn’t, but now you see why Jet cannot be allowed to put his hands on Anya or nurture whatever twisted thing he has going on in his mind.”

Amara flashed me a glare. “He doesn’t have or do twisted things. He’s not his father’s son.”

“But he’s his mother’s.” Amara tensed, and I knew I’d fucked up.

She and Liana Volkov were extremely close, and hinting to Liana’s gray past wouldn’t earn me any points.

“I’m sorry,” I apologized, meaning it too.

Not because I was wrong, but because I hated upsetting Amara.

“I’m protective of Anya and Sailor. I vowed when I was a boy that I’d protect them, and it seems I’m failing. ”

She nodded as if she understood the sentiment, and I suspected she did.

“You’re not failing them,” she claimed. Silence stretched until she continued. “Honestly, I’ve never realized your family is as blended as mine.”

“It can sometimes make our family dynamic… complicated,” I admitted. “And that’s putting it mildly.”

“All families are complicated,” she muttered. “Did you know your mother?”

I shook my head.

“No, although I’ve heard stories of Sailor’s sister my entire life. She had a hard life. Sailor made sure I knew about Anya, the woman who died giving birth to me.”

“Anya?”

“Yes, my sister—or cousin if we want to be technical—was named after her,” I explained. “Told you our family is complicated.”

“Your mom died and your aunt adopted you, that’s how families should work.”

“My mother got pregnant as a result of force,” I said, voice edged with shame. Amara’s lips parted and she swallowed audibly. It wasn’t something I readily shared with people, but it was important to me that she understood where I came from. “Learning that… changed me.”

I had never spoken those words aloud.

“It doesn’t make you any less of a man, Santos.” Her voice was a whisper. “Things like that don’t make any child any different than one born out of love.”

“Sailor definitely agrees with you,” I said, letting out a sardonic breath.

“So that’s your connection to the Santos Cartel?” she asked softly. “I always wondered since it seems your mom is closer with the Ashfords, and they aren’t exactly… criminals.”