Page 41 of Gabriel (Legacy of Heathens #4)

Amara

M oonlight spilled through the cabin window in slow, silken streaks, stretching across polished wood and pooling on the floor like liquid gold.

I remembered the first time Gabriel approached me, the glint of amusement in his eyes that matched the teasing curve of his smile.

The library wasn’t built for enigmatic men like Gabriel Santos. This place smelled of scholars. This man didn’t strike me as one, and yet, somehow, he fit.

He stood beneath a soaring stone archway, one shoulder against a column etched with faded Latin.

Behind him, the tall window looked out toward a courtyard fountain, the afternoon sun filtering through the canopy of trees above in fractured beams. Dappled light fell across his face, catching in his lashes and softening the angles of his cheeks and jaw.

I wasn’t surprised he’d found me here.

Gabriel had a habit of appearing wherever I was. He was always observing, always present in a way that made you feel noticed and catalogued.

“Hello, Amara.”

It was the first time I’d heard his voice. Warm gravel, smooth and low.

“You shouldn’t be in dark libraries alone,” he drawled.

I paused, tilting my head. “Is that meant to be a greeting or a warning?”

“A greeting,” he replied easily. “But it could be both.”

I crossed my arms, schooling my expression into something unreadable. “You’ve been watching me.”

“I have,” he said without shame or remorse. “You walk like you’re one decision away from taking over the school. I find it compelling.”

I lifted a brow. “Is that supposed to be flattery?”

“No.” He stepped closer, hands deep in his coat pockets, like he didn’t want them doing anything else. “Flattery is for people who want something. I just enjoy making observations.”

“Careful,” I said. “You’re two compliments away from sounding rehearsed.”

He tilted his head, mock-considering. “Would it impress you if I said I don’t rehearse anything?”

“It would concern me,” I said, the mahogany desk the only thing separating us now. I fought the urge to stand up, because seated like this, I had to tilt my head up to watch him. “People who don’t plan are usually dangerous, arrogant, or just plain stupid.”

“Somehow I’m not surprised there’s a sharp tongue behind those lips,” he said, and then added, “I find it very… attractive.”

Of course he did.

The worst part? It didn’t sound like some clumsy line. Gabriel Santos didn’t speak like a flirt. He spoke like someone who already knew your pressure points and was choosing, for now, not to press them.

“Funny,” I said coolly, though I could feel the heat rising beneath my collar. “I don’t find you attractive at all.”

He didn’t flinch. Just watched me, eyes glinting. “I wonder if you always lie to yourself.”

“I expect about as much as you do,” I replied, “what with telling yourself you’re charming.”

He blinked, and then he laughed again—lower this time, like he was genuinely enjoying himself.

“So we’re trading jabs now?” he asked, stepping just a little closer, enough that the shadows danced between us. “Alright. You’re sharper than I expected.”

“Of course I am, I’m my parents’ daughter after all.”

“That,” he said, his gaze dragging over me, “was never in question.”

It wasn’t surprising that he knew who I was, but the fact that my face flushed with heat definitely was. Of course, he noticed. I saw the flicker of amusement twitch at the edge of his mouth. He enjoyed seeing me flustered, and even more, he enjoyed being the cause.

“I’m not interested in your flirting,” I said quickly.

“Sure you are,” he replied. “You just haven’t decided what to do with that interest yet.”

My jaw tightened. “You think you’re so clever.”

“I know I am.”

I pushed the chair out of my way, the old wood creaking. Books were still scattered around me, open and waiting. I didn’t give them a second thought.

He didn’t follow.

“Remember this conversation, Amara,” he called, his voice catching up to me. “We’ll tell it to our children one day. Sooner or later, you’ll be mine.”

I never turned around, but the heat in my cheeks stayed with me all the way back to the dorms.

And I would remember every word from that day for many years to come.

It would seem Gabriel was right after all.

That moment—almost eight years ago now—had felt like standing on the edge of something vast and uncharted, much like the Ionian Sea now stretching endlessly around us.

I lay awake before the sun rose fully, my body tangled in the sheets and still tingling with the memory of last night—of Gabriel, of the weight of him beside me. His breathing was even, but the tension in his jaw told a different story.

I watched him, tracing the sharp planes of his face, the way the early light made him look peaceful—almost human—though I knew the storm beneath his calm was never far away.

We hadn’t had sex, but we sure did everything else during the past hours of touching, his skin against mine, while we succumbed to the pleasure like two desperate lovers.

It was messy and urgent, yet so much more.

But the quiet that followed wasn’t peaceful. It left me wanting with the weight of what we left unfinished, and maybe what we both knew we couldn’t finish—at least not yet.

Finally, I reached out, my fingers brushing the sleeve of his shirt where it fell across the pillow. His eyes opened, clouded with sleep, then cleared as they met mine.

“Why aren’t you sleeping?” he murmured.

“I keep wondering,” I said finally, “if last night was just an escape.”

“You’re asking if it meant nothing?”

I nodded, the words too bitter on my tongue.

“No,” he said firmly. “It meant something. Everything. To me, at least.”

I wanted to believe him, but the doubt was a shadow clinging to my ribs and it wasn’t helping my loyalty to my siblings or to this man who had done nothing to betray my trust. “You don’t have to say that to be kind.”

“I’m not being kind,” he said. “I’m being honest. I don’t do this”—he gestured between us—“because it’s easy. Or safe. Or to forget. I do it because I don’t want to let you go. It’s been in the making for almost eight years, Amara.”

My heart stumbled. “Gabriel…”

He reached for me then, his hand closing over mine, rough and steady.

“Look,” he said, “I don’t have answers for you. I don’t know where this goes, or if it should even go anywhere. But I know what I’m feeling isn’t just a moment.”

I swallowed hard, the weight of his words sinking in.

“Last night was real,” he added. “And if you want it to be more—if you want me—then we figure it out. Together.”

I looked down at our hands, letting his warmth ground me, and for the first time, the uncertainty didn’t feel like a trap.

It felt like a beginning.