Page 37 of Gabriel (Legacy of Heathens #4)

Gabriel

D uring my last night’s roaming about the yacht, I’d learned we’d reached the Mediterranean. We were slicing through the waves, steady and fast, and in less than a week, we’d be in the Ionian Sea and closer to the jagged Albanian coastline.

The yacht creaked beneath us like an old man complaining about the cold, the hull letting out the occasional low groan as it swayed with the lazy slap of waves. But with each slap, I could sense the storm building.

Although for now, the rhythmic hush of the water brushed against the sides and almost made it feel like peace.

Almost.

If you ignored the fact that my left wrist was cuffed to a steel pipe bolted just behind the couch I’d been so graciously moved to.

It wasn’t exactly five-star hostage treatment, but Amara had at least made an effort.

Tonight, I had a throw blanket tucked around me, a bowl of popcorn within reach, and I’d even been allowed to approve the movie that now played on the screen. Although the selection of movies was questionable: horror, disturbing psycho type of movies, and more horror.

Nonetheless, it felt like we were just two friends killing time on a stormy night.

Her version of an olive branch, I guess.

She sat at the opposite end of the couch, bundled up in her own knitted blanket, legs folded beneath her.

The bluish light of the screen danced across her face—cheekbones sharp, eyes steady, lips curled into the faintest amused smirk—as another unfortunate on-screen character got eviscerated by something with too many teeth and no soul.

“Your taste in movies is… interesting,” I said, keeping my tone casual, like I wasn’t shackled to a pipe and under the watch of someone who once threatened to shoot me for sneezing too loud.

She didn’t so much as glance over.

“Don’t tell me you’d rather sit here and do a puzzle,” she sneered.

“Fuck puzzles, woman.”

She sighed. “Good. I hate them. But I guess… if you’d prefer a different movie, like a romantic comedy or Fifty Shades kind of vibe, I could rummage around and see if I can find something to soothe your delicate sensibilities.”

I rolled my eyes. “Right. Nothing says ‘delicate’ like being kidnapped, but in romance at least nobody is getting butchered alive.”

She snorted. “You’d be surprised. Ask Anya what she reads.”

That stopped me.

“Huh?”

She let out a quiet laugh, still watching the screen as blood sprayed across it in high-definition.

“Anya started all of us on smut back in the dorms. Regular old romance novels at first, then it turned into erotica. Now she’s deep into alien smut. Like, seven-tentacled-lovers-who-heal-with-sex level stuff.”

I blinked. “Anya’s too young to be reading that.”

Amara shrugged. “Sure. I’ll be sure to tell her you said so. I’m sure she’ll stop immediately.”

I reached across the bowl with my free hand and grabbed a handful of popcorn, flicking a piece into my mouth. Lightly buttered, barely salted. Exactly the way Anya liked it. My chest tightened.

Not my sweet, innocent Anya.

My baby sister was out there reading scandalous space romance while I was chained up on a yacht watching horror movies like it was a sleepover. Jésus .

Amara caught me glancing at her and raised an eyebrow. “You look like a kid who just learned Santa Claus doesn’t exist.”

I theatrically touched my chest with my free hand. “What? He doesn’t?”

She rolled her eyes.

“Okay, Santos, what’s up? Are you upset that Anya reads erotica?” she said, voice laced with humor.

“I’m upset I didn’t know,” I grumbled pensively. How could it be that I didn’t know? All I saw on her nightstands were photography books and classics by Tolstoy, Dostoyevsky, and Gustave Flaubert.

“You look like you’re plotting something,” Amara said.

“Just wondering how many calories are in popcorn,” I deadpanned.

“Liar.” She smirked, tossing a piece at my chest. “You’re mad about the cuff and Anya’s taste in books.”

“I’m not mad,” I huffed. “Just reevaluating some things.”

She threw her head back and laughed. “You’re such a man.”

“Thanks for noticing,” I said dryly.

“Don’t evaluate things too much and just enjoy the movie. Be grateful I’m actually being merciful.”

I grunted but turned back just as the main character let out a bloodcurdling scream. Someone ran, someone died, and someone else’s face got peeled off.

Amara flinched. I didn’t.

She turned to look at me like I was the monster in the film.

“That was explicitly graphic.” She swallowed. “Weren’t you scared?”

“Trained assassin,” I said with a shrug. “Occupational hazard.”

“Even Pennywise?”

“Clowns are beneath me.”

She laughed, a real, soft burst of sound that echoed in the small space. It startled me more than the movie ever could. It was the kind of laugh that made you want to hear it again.

“You laugh like you weren’t raised around danger,” I said before I could stop myself.

Amara looked at me with something unreadable behind her eyes.

“And you act like the world’s problems are on your shoulders.”

I had no response to that, but she wasn’t done.

“And another thing,” she said, reaching for another handful of popcorn. “Don’t tell Anya I mentioned her reading habits. I assumed you knew, and I don’t want her to think I betrayed her.”

“Only if you tell me more about them,” I joked.

She nodded without looking at me. “Well, you get the point with aliens and their inhuman dicks. But she also likes historical romance. The overly dramatic kind with shirtless men on the covers.”

“I just can’t reconcile that Anya with the one I watched grow up,” I muttered.

“Well, you better start, because she’s not a little girl anymore. She’s a strong woman who sometimes cries,” Amara said, popping a kernel into her mouth, “when the brooding man tells the heroine he’s loved her since childhood.”

I stared at her.

“I’m not making this up,” she added, almost laughing again. “She even has a list of her favorite books with the hottest and sweetest annotations. You’re too quick to judge!”

I leaned back and let a smile play on my lips. “I… didn’t know that.”

Amara glanced at me sideways. “It’s healthy to admit you don’t know everything.”

I didn’t say anything.

I hated that I’d spent what felt like a lifetime protecting Anya and still missed something as simple as the books that made her cry.

Outside, the wind picked up. Inside, the movie surged into another jump-scare. A flash of blood and screaming violins.

But it all felt muted now, like the volume had dialed itself down in my head.

“You okay?” Amara asked quietly.

“Just thinking.”

“That’s dangerous.”

“What are you playing at?” I asked, adjusting my position on the couch to face her. “What’s your angle?”

She just shrugged. “Tonight, my goal is to finish this movie and be so tired I fall asleep the moment my head hits the pillow.”

We fell into a heavy silence, both aware that once we hit the shore, the real storm would begin.