Taming the Bitch (COMPLETED)

Chapter V - THE CLOSET

"Leave."
Cold as ice, Gabrielle dismisses him the moment Vincent opens the car door. She's managed to slow the bleeding by pressing her palm so hard that her fingers have gone numb. They've reached the underground parking of The Atelier in Manhattan—her temporary home while she's in New York.

The tall, infuriatingly handsome man only looks at her as if she's said the stupidest thing he's ever heard. Gabrielle rolls her eyes and starts walking toward the building. She has no strength left to argue with a stranger. Black dots cloud her vision—partly from the blood loss, but mostly from the familiar suffocating dread of her father intruding on her life again.

Her vision tunnels as she leans against the elevator wall for support. Her right hand trembles. Her clothes are stained with her own blood.

"Which floor...?" Vincent's voice is close, his hand unexpectedly warm as it settles on her bare shoulder.

"You're cold..." he murmurs, catching her just as her knees give way.

"I'll be fine..." she grumbles, shoving him weakly. She stumbles.

"I told you, you need a hospital," he snaps, lifting her again—this time in a bridal carry.

She scowls. "You're heavier than you look," he mutters in German, which she's too exhausted to decipher.

"Penthouse... No hospitals..." she whispers. Pride be damned—she needs someone. Not because of the cuts, not because of the blood... but because her father is dragging her back into the life she despises. The robotic life that destroyed her dreams. That destroyed her mother.

Gabrielle buries her face in his chest as memories claw back—her mother's last moments, her father's indifference, her own helplessness. The elevator dings open.

Vincent glances down at her. Her eyes are squeezed shut, her fists clenched. He nearly gives in to the irrational urge to kiss her forehead. Her breath against his shirt only pulls him further into this strange need—to hold her tighter, to protect her, to understand her.

Ridiculous. He's known her for mere hours.

And yet... somehow he hasn't.

He has watched her for months—always from afar—trying to understand the woman he was destined to marry. But never like this. Never seeing the vulnerable girl beneath the chaos and scandals.

Not the rebellious heiress the tabloids portray.
Not the venomous troublemaker she pretends to be.
But a bruised, hurting girl who clearly needs love from someone—anyone.

And though he refuses to admit it, he wants to know her reasons. He has to. It's his future too.

He stops at her door. She whispers, "Zero-five-three-zero..." surprising even herself. She doesn't bother arguing anymore. Strangely, she doesn't ask him to put her down.

"You shouldn't give your password to strangers."

"Says the man who steals cars and carries women he barely knows," she murmurs into his neck as he adjusts her weight.

"I'll return your keys. But your password... that I keep. What if I'm a serial killer?"

"Then you're welcome to come in and do your killing." Her voice is so tired—yet so heartbreakingly sad he looks at her.

Their eyes meet. Blue against brown. Something sparks—dangerous, unspoken.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" he asks, stepping into her penthouse, finding his way to her bedroom, deliberately avoiding her lips.

"Will you kill me, Vince?" she whispers—sweet, desperate, strange.

Her use of his nickname knocks the air out of him.