Chapter 127
Isabella's POV
I woke to Gabriel's hand resting lightly on my waist, his fingertips lazily tracing circles through the thin fabric of my sleep shirt. He hadn't opened his eyes yet, but his breathing had already shifted from the deep, steady rhythm of sleep into something more conscious.
The morning light was weak, casting pale rays through the gaps in the heavy curtains. I hadn't moved yet, hadn't even shifted my weight, but his hand suddenly tightened, drawing me closer until my back pressed flush against his chest. His chin settled on the crown of my head, his voice rough with sleep. "Don't move."
"I was just going to roll over," I murmured, though I made no real effort to pull away.
He didn't respond, only let his palm slide lower, gliding along my side until it came to rest on my abdomen. The spot was still flat, unchanged, as if nothing had yet taken root there. But his hand lingered, the heat of it seeping through the fabric, as though he could sense something I hadn't yet perceived.
I couldn't help but smile. "You do this every morning. You're going to scare the baby away."
"No," he said, finally opening his eyes. In the dim light, his green irises were deep as a lake at night, still and unfathomable. His gaze traveled slowly across my face, and finally settled on my lips. "He wouldn't dare."
The seriousness in his tone was almost absurd, as if even an unborn child was expected to obey his orders. I laughed softly, reaching up to tap the tense line of his jaw. "If you keep this up, you're going to suffocate him when he's born."
"She," he corrected, his voice carrying a strange certainty. "It's a girl."
"How do you know?"
"I just know." He leaned down, pressing a kiss to my forehead, then my nose, then the corner of my mouth, before finally settling on my lips in a light, lingering touch. "I'll give her everything. The best. No one will touch a single hair on her head."
"Gabriel," I called softly, pressing my palm to his cheek and forcing him to meet my eyes. "You can't keep her in a cage."
He was silent for a few seconds, his throat working. Finally, he pulled me tighter. "I'll let her be free. But only when the world is safe enough."
The implication was clear—until Marcus was dealt with, nothing else mattered.
By the time we went downstairs, the dining room had transformed into a small buffet, the table covered with dishes the chef had carefully prepared, clearly attempting to coax back my long-vanished appetite.
I looked at the five different types of porridge, three kinds of bread, fresh fruit platter, and several light side dishes—the entire table packed full, the scene somewhat overwhelming. My stomach churned, and I had no desire to touch anything.
Gabriel sat across from me, his fork suspended mid-air, his gaze fixed on my empty plate, his brow furrowing deeper with each passing moment.
"Eat something," he said quietly, his tone light but unyielding.
"I'm not hungry," I replied, lifting my water glass and taking a slow sip, trying to ease the tightness in my throat.
"You're not hungry. The baby is." He set down his fork, stood, and walked around the table to my side, crouching down to bring his eyes level with mine. "Isabella, you have to eat."
"I really can't—"
"Then drink the porridge." He cut me off, already holding a bowl of oatmeal in one hand and a spoon in the other. He brought the spoon to my lips. "Open."
I looked at his serious expression, a mix of helplessness and amusement rising in my chest. This man, who moments ago had been coldly strategizing in the war room, was now kneeling before me, coaxing me to eat like a child.
"I can do it myself," I said, reaching for the bowl.
"No." He pulled it away, the spoon held steady. "You'll take two sips and say you're full. Open your mouth, Isabella."
I sighed and obediently opened my mouth. The porridge was warm and soft, with a hint of honey sweetness—not hard to swallow at all. He watched me intently, and only after I'd swallowed did a flicker of satisfaction cross his face before he scooped another spoonful.
He fed me like this, spoonful by spoonful, until I'd finished nearly half the bowl. Then he cut several pieces of fruit, bringing them to my lips one by one, until I genuinely couldn't eat anymore.
"You need to eat more tonight," he said, standing and pressing a kiss to my forehead. "The doctor said you haven't gained any weight. That's not acceptable."
"The baby's only five weeks along. It's too early—"
"I don't care." He cut me off, his tone firm. "You have to eat properly."
I watched him return to his seat, pick up his coffee cup, and resume his usual calm composure, as if the man who had just knelt on the floor to feed me didn't exist at all.
Later, when I went to the bathroom to shower, I heard his footsteps following before I'd even closed the door.
"Gabriel, I'm just taking a shower," I said, turning to find him already unbuttoning his shirt.
"I know," he said, unfastening his cufflinks with practiced ease. "So I'm coming with you."
"I don't need—"
"The floor's wet. You could slip." He'd already removed his shirt, revealing his lean, scarred torso, the old wounds catching the light in dull gleams. "You almost fell last time. I'm not letting that happen again."
"That was because you suddenly burst in and scared me!" I protested, my cheeks warming slightly.
He didn't respond, simply walked over, his hand settling on the small of my back, the other reaching for the buttons of my sleep shirt. I tried to push him away, but he stopped me with a single look. "Don't move, Isabella. I'm just helping you shower."
"I can wash myself—"
"You can't reach your back," he said calmly, as if stating a fact. "And you can't bend over for too long."
I wanted to argue but couldn't find the words. He made it sound so reasonable, even though I was only five weeks pregnant and perfectly capable of moving on my own.
Warm water cascaded from the showerhead, and his hands, slick with soap, moved slowly across my back, the pressure firm but careful, thorough without being rough. I closed my eyes and let him work.
"Lift your arms," he murmured in my ear, his voice carrying a calm command.
I obeyed, and his hands slid from my underarms down the length of my arms, his fingers occasionally brushing sensitive skin and making me shiver involuntarily.
"Don't move," he said, his breath warm against the back of my neck. "I'm just washing you, Isabella. Don't read into it."
"I'm not—" I started to protest, but he suddenly pulled me back against him, his chin resting on my shoulder, his voice dropping to a low rasp. "Do you know how much I want you?"
I froze, my heartbeat spiking.
"But I can't," he continued, his palm settling over my abdomen, the touch so light it was barely there. "The doctor said the first three months are critical. So I have to hold back. Every day, I see you, and I can't touch you."
The strain in his voice, the barely suppressed desire and restraint, made me suddenly realize how much he'd been enduring.
"Gabriel..." I turned in his arms, wrapping my hands around his neck and rising on my toes to press a soft kiss to his lips. "When the baby's stable, we can—"
"No." He cut me off, his eyes deep and intense. "After you give birth. I can wait."
The determination in his gaze was absolute, bordering on obsessive, and it made my chest ache.
In the afternoon, I curled on the couch with a parenting book I'd ordered online, trying to understand chapters on fetal development and prenatal nutrition. Quincy's urgent knock broke the quiet.
Gabriel looked up from his desk, his brow furrowing. "What is it?"
Quincy handed over an encrypted file, his expression grim. "Marcus is making moves."
Gabriel took the file, his face darkening as he scanned the contents. I set down my book and walked over, my stomach twisting as I saw the dense list of names and dates. "What happened?"
"He's purging his family," Gabriel said coldly, his finger tapping one of the lines. "Three illegitimate sons, all dead within two weeks. Car accident, drowning, food poisoning."
I sucked in a breath.
"And these," Quincy added, handing over several photos. Bodies—burned, dismembered, unrecognizable. "Seven members of the family council. Only two left now. The rest either 'had heart attacks' or 'fell accidentally.'"
I stared at the images, bile rising in my throat. Gabriel immediately tossed the photos aside and pulled me into his arms, his palm rubbing soothing circles on my back. "Don't look."
"He's insane," I whispered, my voice shaking. "Is he going to kill everyone in his family?"
"No," Gabriel said, his voice icy. "He's eliminating threats. Once he has complete control of the Donovan family, we're next."
Quincy added quietly, "The estate's defenses are at maximum alert. Snipers on 24-hour rotation, triple security checks on all personnel, food and water tested three times daily. Medical team on standby, prenatal records fully encrypted. Everything's locked down."
"It's not enough," Gabriel interrupted, his gaze sharp as a blade. "I want surveillance posts every hundred meters within a five-kilometer radius of the estate. Any suspicious activity, shoot to kill."
"Yes, sir." Quincy hesitated. "There's one more thing. The city's been too quiet lately."
Gabriel looked up. "What do you mean?"
"Not even minor skirmishes," Quincy said, frowning. "That's not Marcus's style. Either he's planning something big, or—"
"Or he's waiting for us to slip up," Gabriel finished, his voice cold as ice.
Gabriel's hand covered mine, his grip light but his eyes filled with lethal intent. "When he makes his move, I'll make him regret being born."
Quincy nodded and left, his footsteps fading down the hallway until the room fell silent again, leaving only the two of us and the weight of the coming threat.
I looked up at him, seeing the barely restrained violence and fury in his eyes, and felt a complicated surge of emotion. I knew he was holding back, for me, for the baby. He was keeping all his rage and impulses locked inside, waiting for the right moment to tear Marcus apart, root and stem.
"Gabriel," I called softly.
He looked down at me, his expression softening slightly. "Yes?"
"You're going to win," I said, my voice quiet but steady. "I believe in you."
He didn't speak, just held me tighter, his chin resting on top of my head. After a long silence, he finally murmured, "I will. For you. For our child. I will."