Page 33 of Gabriel (Legacy of Heathens #4)

“Ah, the billionaire kings. No, they aren’t criminals. They helped Sailor raise me and ensured our protection until Raphael entered our lives. You see, Amara, I owe it to Raphael and Sailor to keep Anya safe just like Sailor kept me safe.”

“You are. You’re doing everything right,” she claimed. “Aside from whatever it is you’re after when it comes to Jet, because he’s not a threat to her.”

She was blind and too trustworthy when it came to her brother, and although admirable, it was also very frustrating.

“Let’s agree to disagree for now,” I muttered under my breath.

She let out a relieved breath and smiled. “Yes, let’s. And, Gabriel?”

“Yes?”

“It’s obvious your birth mother loved you, and Sailor loves you very much.”

This conversation was getting too close to the truth and it made me feel uncomfortable, but the next words slipped out regardless. “I always wondered if Sailor looked at me and saw him.”

“If that were true,” Amara said gently, “she wouldn’t have protected you like she did. That’s not shame. That’s love. It’s the kind of love that chooses to see more than where you came from.”

“Or some kind of sick complex,” I muttered.

“No,” she said. “It’s just… love. Simple as that. She sees her sister in you. That’s why she loves you even more.”

I focused on her. Her expression was unreadable, but her eyes were soft with compassion.

“After I found out the truth about my birth,” I said, “I started using charm like my armor. It gets me what I need and keeps people from seeing the wreckage underneath.”

She nodded slowly.

I dropped my voice to a whisper. “But you see through it, don’t you?”

Her eyes locked on to mine. Something soft flickered behind her blue gaze. I didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just let the moment settle between us.

“I know what it’s like,” she said at last. “Words and truths—secrets you were never meant to uncover—can split your world in two. I love my parents. And I love Liana like a mother. I was five when I left to live with my biological parents, and I love them a lot, but it changed me fundamentally.”

Her hand twitched in the space between us, pausing for a heartbeat before she reached out and touched me. It was just a brush of her fingers against mine, but it felt like fire.

She didn’t pull away.

I turned my hand, palm up, and let our fingers entwine. My heart thundered. Definitely not the reaction of someone unaffected.

When I looked at her, she was already watching me. The walls between us weren’t down, but they were cracked—enough for heat to seep through.

I shifted slightly, giving her space to retreat.

She didn’t.

Our lips met, soft at first. A tentative question neither of us dared to speak.

Then she leaned closer, deepening the kiss—heat rising, distrust melting, something fragile and real blooming in the embers.

Her hand slid to my jaw. Mine cupped the back of her neck, thumb brushing that tender place beneath her ear. Her breath hitched.

When we finally parted, our foreheads rested together. Her eyes were wide, searching.

“We can’t do this,” she whispered.

“I know.”

But neither of us moved.

The fire had been lit and it wasn’t going to let up anytime soon.

She was the first to move.

An inhale, then the subtle shift of her shoulders as she pulled her hand back. Her eyes flicked away, as if the kiss had betrayed her more than me.

Outside, the yacht rocked gently, the water lapping against the hull with a hollow, rhythmic thump. The mattress creaked beneath us as she readjusted, moving a good two feet away.

Her voice, when it came, was firm. “That shouldn’t have happened.”

I didn’t respond immediately. My pulse was still hammering in my throat. I needed a second to gather what was left of my composure.

So I studied her instead. The way she folded back into herself. Tension drew tight along her spine—an emotional retreat as abrupt as a slammed door.

A part of me admired the control. The discipline. Another part of me hated it.

“Why?” I asked softly.

Her gaze snapped to mine. “Why what?”

“Why shouldn’t it have happened?”

She didn’t answer, but a muscle in her jaw flexed tight.

I tilted my head, eyes narrowing. That quiet, calculating part of me—the one trained to read people like ledgers—clicked into place. Every breath, every blink, the subtle twitch of her mouth.

She was unraveling. She just hadn’t realized how far.

“You think it makes you weak,” I said. “To want something or someone.”

Her eyes darkened. “This isn’t about wanting.”

“You’re right,” I murmured. “If we were smart, we’d stay on opposite sides of this room and pretend the chemistry between us doesn’t exist. We can pretend this kiss or the other we shared didn’t tear a hole in the walls we spent years building. You spent years building,” I corrected.

Her breath caught for just a second.

“But pretending won’t protect you, Amara. It only dulls the blade until it slips and cuts you anyway.”

She looked away again, jaw locking.

“You think I’m the risk,” I continued, voice low and measured. “But it’s not just me. You and your siblings have trained yourselves to compartmentalize so well that you’ve forgotten the difference between love and loyalty.”

Her glare returned. “Don’t pretend you know us.”

“I don’t pretend to know them.” The psychopathic twins were doomed, and there was no point in trying to understand them. “But I know you. I’ve watched you long enough to know you .”

She stood suddenly, her boots thudding softly on the wooden floor as she turned away, spine rigid, arms folding over her chest like a shield.

“I should’ve made Elira come,” she muttered.

“But you didn’t,” I said, tone calm but cutting. “Just admit that a part of you trusts me.”

She spun back around, eyes flashing. “No. Some part of me wants you. That’s not the same as trust.”

I let that sit for a moment, let it echo beneath the distant hum of the yacht’s systems.

“What if I told you something real?” I asked, softer now. “Something you could use to hurt me.”

She stopped moving, hesitated.

“I already know how to hurt you,” she said, voice quieter now. “Anya is your weakness. But I’d never use her. She’s my friend.”

“And she’s my sister,” I gritted.

The air tightened between us like it bore weight. It thickened with unsaid things with each passing second.

“I’ve spent years protecting the people I love,” I said. “And somewhere along the way, I became hard to love. And now I’m failing to protect the one person who matters most.”

She blinked slowly. Then walked back toward me. She came to a stop not as close as before, but close enough that I could feel the heat of her skin.

“You’re not failing,” she whispered. “Anya is safe.”

“But are you?” I asked, eyes locking with hers. “Am I?”

“You are,” she claimed with foolish conviction. “I talked to Elira about her and Jet’s treatment of you. They were wrong, but their intention was to protect me, just like yours is to protect Anya. You three are actually not that different, you know?”

I let out a sardonic breath, realizing she meant it as a compliment, but I couldn’t take it as such.

“I trust them,” she continued. “And I wish you would too, at least when it comes to this, because there isn’t a scenario that connects Jet to Anya. Your sister has nothing to do with this.”

“She has everything to do with this,” I gritted, her stubbornness getting the better of me. “And with you. Jet’s using my affection for you to get her.”

She rolled her eyes and scoffed, “There’s nothing between us, Santos.”

The yacht rocked slightly, the mattress shifting under me again as I leaned forward.

“Isn’t there, or are you lying to yourself? You don’t scare easily, but the kiss we shared scared you. And the look in your eyes now scares me .”

“I don’t know what you’re doing, Santos,” she said. “If this is some kind of game?—”

“It’s not.”

“But—”

“Tell me you didn’t feel anything when you kissed me,” I said. “This thing between us—it’s been simmering for years. And now that I’ve tasted your lips, and you’ve tasted mine, it’s not going away.”

She didn’t respond. Not with words.

I reached out and touched her wrist with two fingers, light and steady.

Her skin was warm. She didn’t pull away.

“I’m not asking you to trust me,” I said. “But don’t run.”

Her breath was shallow now, the rise and fall of her chest matching mine.

“I’m not afraid of what’s between us,” I added. “You shouldn’t be either.”

Her lips parted like she was going to argue, but then she moved—fast, decisive—and kissed me again. Harder this time. Hotter.

Desperate.

It wasn’t gentle. It was a crack in the dam, years of pressure rushing through. Her hands fisted in my hair, pulling me closer, and I gripped her waist, dragging her against me despite the awkward twist of my cuffed wrist.

The mattress groaned beneath us. The metal shackle on my other wrist scraped softly against the headboard.

We only broke apart when we had to because we were too breathless.

“This changes nothing,” she whispered, but her voice trembled.

I smiled, just barely. “It changes everything. You’re chaos to my control. Don’t fear this thing between us, preciosa. ”

And this time, she didn’t argue.

Instead, she fastened the cuff back around my wrist with a soft click and walked out the door.