CHAPTER ONE
Four weeks ago
Gabriel picked up the scissors and twisted them in his hand, watching the bathroom light bouncing off the shiny silver. These were kitchen scissors, ones he’d liberated from the messy drawer neither he nor Stefan ever used. They’d been caught up in a mess of string, batteries, and three wooden spoons. The blades looked sharp enough, and as he couldn’t remember ever using them, he hoped to hell they would do the job.
He drew them over his wrist, over the faint scar that was hidden under a tattoo, and thought about where he’d come from and what he’d done to survive. They’d held him down—gripped his hair and twisted it hard and held him down.
Just like the ones before.
Determined, he took the cold metal away from his wrist and looked back at the mirror. How did he do this? Gathering a handful of hair, he ran his fingers through the length of it, which generally brushed his shoulders, and held it high. Awkwardly, he began chopping at the dark length, ignoring the way it caught on his naked chest. He was making a real mess of this, but nothing would stop him now. With each slice of the blades, more of the curling dark hair he assumed he’d inherited from his father fell to the floor, and each push of his fingers through his hair returned less length to cut.
“What the hell?” Stefan asked from the door.
Gabriel stiffened. He’d known Stefan was home and he hadn’t locked the bathroom door, but he hadn’t wanted Stefan to find him doing this. Stefan would be angry; their clients liked Gabriel’s long hair.
“Gabriel?” Stefan stood next to him and they exchanged looks in the mirror. “What happened?” He didn’t seem angry, just concerned. Gabriel had learned to read all the expressions on Stefan’s face.
“I just wanted a change,” Gabriel rasped, then regretted talking at all as Stefan’s eyes narrowed in on the bruises forming on his neck.
“Jesus, Gabe, what did you do?” Stefan touched him then, a brief press of fingers to Gabriel’s arm, and it was all Gabriel could do not to move away. The flinch was enough, though, and Stefan stepped back. “This was an easy fucking job. How did you fuck it up?”
Easy for whom? Gabriel thought dully. Easy for the guy who’d had his friends over and decided Gabriel was fair game. What else could Gabriel expect? He’d been born to this.
“This is getting fucking dangerous, even for you,” Stefan snapped, leaning on the wall by the sink so Gabriel couldn’t fail to see him. “What did you do wrong?”
Gabriel dipped his eyes then; he didn’t have an answer, and Stefan would lose his shit if he knew what Gabriel had done tonight. Because it had been Gabriel who’d said yes to it all. Or at least he thought he’d said yes; everything was hazy after the first vodka.
“You didn’t go outside what I agreed you could do there,” Stefan snapped abruptly, and stood away from the wall, his fists balled at his sides. “Tell me you didn’t do that.”
Gabriel hacked at another handful of hair, and this time he held on to it, dropping it into the sink and watching the curls float into a pile. He hadn’t realized he had a red tint to his hair, but it was obvious against the white of the porcelain.
“Okay,” he said evenly, “then I won’t tell you.” He was skating close to the edge, but perhaps Stefan punching him to the floor would render him unconscious and stop the fire in his brain.
It worked. Stefan cursed loudly and grabbed the scissors, tossing them away to clatter into the bath. Then he grabbed Gabriel by the length of hair that was left and twisted his fingers cruelly, forcing his head back.
“You fucking idiot,” he said. “I hope they fucking paid.”
Gabriel made a half-hearted attempt to get away, but he didn’t really want to. He needed Stefan to do this, craved the anger and passion as much as taking his next breath.
“Did you agree to that shit? Did you even discuss a safe word?” Stefan asked, shaking Gabriel again. “Tell me what you did.”
Gabriel closed his eyes and slumped a little in Stefan’s hold. How could he safeword when he didn’t even know at the time that he was being hurt?
And then there was sweetness, Stefan’s voice gentling.
“Fuck, Gabriel, sit the fuck down.”
He let himself be moved, allowed Stefan to sit him on the closed toilet lid, then hunched over on himself. He was going to be sick, he hurt, and he needed to shave his head—had to get rid of every single length of it that someone could hold.
“Stefan?” he asked softly. “I made so much money.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out all the cash he’d got on top of the direct payment. So much cash. Bags tumbled out with the money—tiny clear bags with white powder. Stefan would be so proud of him.
Stefan grabbed the baggies and the money, throwing the money on the floor then tipping the contents of the bags into the sink.
“Jesus, Gabe, are you high? You don’t do drugs, you fucking moron. Did they make you inhale this shit? Is that why you look like death?”
Gabriel blinked up at Stefan. The words hung there, but they didn’t connect in his head. What had happened? The men who’d paid for him. What had they done? Why couldn’t he remember everything?
“All off,” he murmured, gripping Stefan’s hand and pressing it to his scalp. “Please.”
“Gabriel—”
“Fuck you, Stefan, help me.” He couldn’t stop the curse, or the plea, or the need that itched under his skin. And he knew he’d crossed the line when Stefan’s eyes narrowed and he gripped Gabriel’s hair again, yanking his head sideways, exposing his neck. The scissors glinted in his peripheral vision in the bath.
“Did you get off with them?” Stefan growled, temper slicing the words staccato-sharp. “Did you?”
“Stef…”
They knew each other so well, their partnership based on years of a hell Gabriel was used to now. Stefan stood up and yanked Gabriel up after him, turning him to face the mirror, pulling his shorts down and sheathing himself. Gabriel was impossibly hard as Stefan pressed fingers to the bruises on his neck and fucked him from behind. He was still loose, pained, knew there had to be blood, but none of that mattered. He didn’t have to think right now.
“Fucking idiot…” Stefan’s words were harsh, ordering Gabriel to feel, and the itch under his skin was impossible to ignore. Gabriel lifted his hands, twisted his own nipples and watched his face in the mirror. Each of Stefan’s thrusts knocked his thighs against the sink, and his cock was hard.
“I need…” he gasped when Stefan fucked him hard but not enough to get him off—it was never sufficient to get him off. Stefan always knew what he needed.
Stefan looks after me.
“I know what you need.” Stefan pressed harder on his bruises with one hand, closing his hand on Gabriel’s throat, the other wrapping around his cock. It fucking hurt; the grip and the mess in his head. “Take it—come on, you can do this.”
When orgasm hit him, it was nothing. A job done. Perfunctory, a physical reaction to an extreme stimulus, but the fire in his nerves eased a little.
Stefan pulled out abruptly and Gabriel winced.
“Don’t do it again,” Stefan snapped. Then, before Gabriel could answer, he shoved him to sit on the toilet seat again, on a soft towel. Picking up the scissors, he began to cut Gabriel’s hair, brushing the falling darkness off his skin. Then he helped Gabriel into the shower and washed him from head to toe.
This was the part Gabriel craved.
“Thank you,” Gabriel murmured, hating the fact that he wasn’t capable of looking after himself. His thoughts were returning to clarity.
“You’re a fucking idiot,” Stefan replied, with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
There would be consequences for Gabriel losing control of the booking tonight; consequences that would last days. He’d known that, but at the time, a voice inside him had been shouting that if they hurt him, then he could feel something.
Anything.
They climbed out of the shower, Gabriel wrapping the biggest towel he could around him. Stefan disappeared out of the bathroom and was back in a few seconds.
“You got another letter,” Stefan snapped, and threw it at Gabriel, where it bounced against his naked belly and fell to the floor. He didn’t make a move to pick it up, not until Stefan had left. Fucking letters and the ache they caused. Stefan had opened it, the tear jagged, and Gabriel could imagine the temper that Stefan must have felt when he ripped it open. He didn’t blame Stefan; who wanted Gabriel’s past to intrude into what they had now?
He finally picked up the envelope and slipped quietly into his room, closing the door. He didn’t lock it—last time he’d done that, Stefan had broken the door, told him a story about a time when he hadn’t been able to get into a room and that it scared him. That he was thinking about Gabriel.
The letter wasn’t long. They never were.
Legacy Ranch appeared at the top of the paper, in strong, determined capitals. Whoever this Kyle guy was, he had neat, considered handwriting. Gabriel scanned the letter and closed his eyes, waiting for the door to open.
And just like clockwork, Stefan pushed into the room, salve in one hand and a sandwich on a plate in the other, coffee perched precariously on the side.
“I made you some food,” Stefan said, and sat on the bed, causing Gabriel to shift toward him. Gabriel didn’t move away—he didn’t want to upset Stefan.
“Thank you,” Gabriel murmured.
“What did the letter say?”
That was normal. As if it was a test, even though Stefan had already read it. The first time Gabriel had said something wrong, Stefan had looked so damn disappointed. All he’d said was that he loved Gabriel but he didn’t like a liar. He hadn’t needed to say anything else, but the bruises had taken a long time to heal when he’d finished being disappointed with Gabriel.
“They have this horse, Mistry. Apparently it’s still not been claimed.”
“Anything else, Angel?”
Stefan’s use of that nickname was a switch inside Gabriel that made him tense.
“The usual things—that they want to help me and when I’m ready they’ll be there.”
Stefan reached out, and Gabriel schooled his features so he didn’t wince. Stefan cradled Gabriel’s face, and his grip was firm.
“You know what will happen if you go back to that kind of life, my sweet, innocent Angel. You know they’ll hurt you. You don’t need help. You have me. I look after you.”
“I know.” Gabriel knew the right answers to give now. He’d once hoped that the world this Kyle guy wrote about would have a place for him, but that wasn’t an option for someone like Gabriel.
“I look after you, Angel,” Stefan said, and pressed the softest of kisses to Gabriel’s lips. “Now get some sleep. I canceled your two appointments for tomorrow. You need to eat your food, get your chocolate and sleep.”
“Okay.”
Stefan helped Gabriel get settled in the soft nest of pillows, and brushed Gabriel’s short hair.
“This will grow back,” he said.
Gabriel placed a hand on Stefan’s arm. “They held my head, Stefan.” He wanted to say more about what they’d done, but he didn’t have to—Stefan wouldn’t want to hear the details.
“It will grow back,” Stefan repeated, then patted Gabriel’s head. “’Night.”
Gabriel watched Stefan leave, feeling more relaxed. He picked up the salve and rubbed it over his abused hole, then over any cuts or bruises he found, not entirely sure they would feel any effect from this stuff. Hell, at least his ass wasn’t burning right now.
Even wrapped in the quilt, his body aching, the bruises stinging and his head cool, Gabriel couldn’t get to sleep, tears crowding his eyes. Whatever they’d given him, he remembered seeing rainbows tonight, hundreds of them, in his head, and for a second he’d thought he could reach them.
“I like rainbows,” he murmured to himself, to the pillow.
Then somehow, blessedly, he slept.