Dr. Gabriel Gaudet-De Luca was okay. Really, he was. After his near-death experience that spring night, he had gone back to work the very next day, a smile plastered on his face and his usual laser-sharp focus intact. He kept up his pleasant conversations, flirted with coworkers during downtime, and saw patient after patient when on duty. As soon as he left the clinic, he threw himself into his research under Lucienâs supervision. To the outside world, the fact that Ransom had almost killed him was just a minor, forgettable incident, on par with a night of heavy drinking with friends. What no one else knew, however, was that this hangover was far worse than anything alcohol-induced.
Gabriel still woke up with a start at least three nights a week, forehead slick with cold sweat, breath caught in his throat. For a few momentsâeven after clawing his way out of sleepâhe would still see the cold, dead smile on Ransomâs lips and feel the searing heat of the copâs gun barrel pressed against his forehead. But the phantom of that dragonâs presence didnât haunt him only during his sleepless nights. A few weeks ago, he had nearly incinerated Ravi with a sphere of blue, superheated fire just because he had appeared behind him without warning while Gabriel was distracted by a particularly complex patient chart, waiting for his coffee at the vending machine. Every sudden noise, every flicker of movement at the edge of his vision made him tense, triggering his fight-or-flight response. And the aftermath of the shooting didnât help soothe his growing unrest. He couldâve handled the humiliation of being saved by Cairo and Kadenâthough, come on. Nearly seven billion people in the world, and the only two who came to his aid were the last ones heâd ever want to owe anything to.
But what truly hurt was his fathersâ reactions. Lucien barely acknowledged what had happened to him, even after seeing him nearly bleed out in his suite. Gabriel had the distinct feeling the doctor had been more concerned about the state of his snow-white carpet than the fact his son had ended up looking like a piece of Swiss cheese. Raphael, on the other hand, had seemed more interestedâat least on the surfaceâbut hadnât even waited a full week before claiming Ransom as his own slave, parading him around like a prized new toy. Somehow, Gabriel doubted this was purely due to the paternal instinct to avenge him. He already knew the truth: he had been born from nothing, a whim of Lucienâs, and if someone eventually succeeded in ending his existence, thatâs where heâd returnânothingness. No photo, no article, no memory would remain. He knew that, to the family he had sworn an eternal pledge of fealty to, he was little more than a stranger. And if you were a Gaudet-De Luca, love wasnât unconditional. It had to be earned. But knowing that didnât make it hurt any less.
Looking at himself in the mirror, he was almost able to separate his rational sideâthe one with a degree in Psychiatryâfrom his emotional one, and put a name to what he was going through. But Gabriel couldnât allow himself to use words like "depression," "anxiety disorder," or "PTSD" when it came to himself.
Instead, he focused on something his kin found more acceptable: rage. Quite frankly, it was the only thing that had kept him going those past three monthsâa constant, blinding, roaring fury that gave him the strength to get up every day, put on his mask of flawless perfection, and throw himself into his work with even more brilliance and dedication than before. Work kept him grounded. But it would also be the key to solving all his problems. He would become so incredibly powerful that no one would ever again have the opportunityâor the desireâto oppose him, either physically or emotionally. He would become a monster, most likely, but a monster with thick, armor-plated, iron-coated skin. But he wasnât there yet.
So, on the night of the ball, he had done everything in his power to stay distracted: approached two Councilmen, hit on Magnai shamelessly, tormented his brother a little, and wooed both Dair and Briar. And yet, his gaze kept wandering restlessly around the ballroomâuntil it landed on the one person he had dreaded seeing: Ransom. He had hoped their last encounterâwhen Gabriel had used every weapon at his disposal to push the slaveâs mind and body close to the breaking pointâwould have brought him some closure, somehow. Spoiler alert: it didnât. Seeing Ransom, dressed like a true gentleman, drinking and chatting at the ball like any other guest, dragged Gabriel straight back to the moment when, crawling on the floor like a worm and on the brink of death, he had begged for his life.
Frozen in place, Gabriel was suddenly flooded with everything he had spent a quarter of a year suppressingârage, fear, sadness, betrayal and pain all crashed down on him at once, like an iron grip squeezing the air from his lungs.
A voice in his mind told him to strike. He was the predator again, the one holding the knife. He could torment Ransom all he wanted now, as long as he stayed within the limits of what Raphael considered acceptable. Another voice screamed at him to runâto teleport back to his bedroom, protected by so many wards and enchantments it was probably safer than a nuclear bunker. Instead, he stayed there, paralyzed by two completely opposing instincts, his heart likely beating at a rate that would have been lethal for an ordinary human. No. He couldnât just stand there and watch Ransom stroll around the ballroom without a care in the world. He had to get out.
He turned on his heel and made his way quickly toward the corridor, the lively noise of the party behind him reduced to a muffled hum. His head started spinning, and he had to lean against the wall for support before hastily running toward one of the bathrooms as his stomach began to twist violently. Inside the empty washroom, Gabriel rushed to the sink, gripping the edges so hard his knuckles turned white. His stomach gave one final spasm before emptying its contents into the white ceramic basin. Panting for breath, he tried to pull himself togetherâand when he finally looked up at the mirror, he saw a man behind his pale, sweat-covered reflection. Shit.
"Yup, itâs me," the man said, smiling pleasantly as he turned. Immediately, the warlock scrambled to put up his usual perfect façade, but it was less convincing than usual. His eyes were wide, his voice a little distant. "Donât worry, I just drank too much. You know how these parties are, right?" he lied shamelessly, praying to every infernal creature ever conceived that the newcomer would buy it. But Gabrielâs mind had been through too much, had taken too many hits in the last few minutes, and his magic was beginning to fail him. The mental shields that usually kept his thoughts safe were starting to falter, flickering like a dying lightbulb.
He had become a pulsating star, radiating waves of terror, fury, and regretâand projecting them involuntarily onto anyone capable of perceiving them. "I told you Iâm fine. You can go," he insisted as the stranger asked him if he wanted some water, his tone somewhere between cheerful and impatient. He just wanted to be left alone in that moment, because maybe âjust maybeâ Doctor Gabriel Gaudet-De Luca was not okay. "I see from your collar that you're not an unclaimed slave, so Iâm sure your master wonât be pleased to hear youâre following men into bathrooms. Bye!"
