Gabriel’s Inferno Trilogy by Sylvain Reynard Page 0,87

my knees every five seconds. Whatever happened, consider yourself lucky you don’t remember it! I’m sure it was more than forgettable.”

Gabriel’s hand grabbed her chin and held it firmly, lifting it so her face was inches from his. “I said stop it.” His eyes flashed back at hers, and in them Julia read a serious warning. “You are not a whore. And don’t ever speak about yourself like that again.” His tone slid across her skin like an ice cube.

He let her go and took a very large step back, his chest heaving and his eyes burning. He closed his eyes hard and began to breathe deeply, very deeply. Even in his shadowy, soused thinking he knew that things had escalated far beyond what was warranted. He needed to calm the fuck down fast, and then he needed to calm her down before she did something rash.

The look in her eyes said it all; he’d cornered her like an animal. She was angry and hurt and frightened and sad—a furious, wounded kitten with claws drawn and tears glistening at the corners of her eyes. He had done this. He had done this to her, a brown-eyed angel, when he compared her to a whore and failed to remember whatever happened between them last night.

You must have seduced her if she’s acting like this…Emerson, you are a grade A asshole. And you just kissed your career good-bye.

While Gabriel was thinking, and thinking slowly, Julia saw an opportunity and took it. Cursing him loudly, she grabbed her clothes from the dryer and ran into the guest room, slamming and locking the door behind her.

She pulled off his boxer shorts, dropping them disdainfully on the floor, and quickly pulled on her damp socks and jeans. When she realized that she’d left her bra on top of the dryer she decided she’d just leave without it. He can add that to his collection. Bastard. She decided not to change out of his T-shirt since it was less revealing than her own. And if he demanded his T-shirt back, she’d scratch his eyes out.

Julia stood with her ear against the door, listening for any sound of movement in the hallway. Her lack of clarity on this point gave her a few precious moments to think.

She’d lost her temper and been stupid. She knew what Gabriel could be like; she’d seen the shattered coffee table and the blood spattered on Grace’s carpet. Although she was positive that her Gabriel would never, ever strike her, she had no idea what Professor Emerson would do when provoked.

But he’d made her so angry. And she’d never had the chance to rage against him before. It was as if all of her pent up anger was screaming to get out. She had to push back; she had to get him out of her system once and for all. She’d wasted her life pining for someone who wasn’t real, some temporary alcoholic apparition, and today it was finally going to stop.

You’ve yelled and cursed at him. Just get the hell out before he decides to get physical.

While Julia was getting dressed, Gabriel was stumbling to the kitchen in order to find something to remove the Scotch-woven cobwebs from his mind. He opened the door to the refrigerator and leaned against it, bathed in its brilliant fluorescence.

His blue eyes glanced over the fridge’s contents until they found a large white tray. A very pretty, large white tray. A very pretty, very feminine, large white tray with food, orange juice, and what appeared to be a cocktail on it.

And was that…? She even garnished the plate, for God’s sake.

Gabriel stared. Miss Mitchell seemed to be a kindly person, but what were the chances that she made him breakfast for any reason other than the fact that he’d taken her to bed? The tray, in all of its garnished glory, seemed to be evidence of his seduction, and for that reason it sickened him.

Nevertheless, he was grateful that she’d prepared him a cocktail, as he gulped it greedily. It was precisely the antidote his pounding head needed, and in a few moments he felt some measure of relief.

Lazily, his eyes alighted on the note that was propped up against the orange juice. He scanned the writing slowly, not quite understanding why Miss Mitchell would choose to address him in such a manner. He read the note again and again, his focus finally coming to rest on these words:

Apparuit iam beatitudo vestra.

Now your blessedness appears.

Your